


Oh, Sorrow

by erobey



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Implied Mpreg, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-07 11:06:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 154,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erobey/pseuds/erobey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elladan and Legolas become soul-bound due to tragedy, now their fate may spell ruin for all they love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

# Oh, Sorrow

#### A Legolas/Elladan Story by erobey, unbeta'd

## A Vision from the Past

  


####  _TA 2917, Imladris_

"Hîr Elrond." 

Faelon stood poised on the threshold of the study, his entire person radiating a combination of regret, reluctance, and anxious necessity. It seemed his lot to be the bearer of ill news and while he had grown accustomed to it, the erstwhile valet was never able to acquire that bland mental insouciance that would render him unperturbed. As much as he hated to interrupt Elrond's quiet evening of restful reading, he could not in good conscience fail to report the problem. Better to err on the side of caution than a tragedy result.

"Tell me." Elrond put aside the book he had chosen and rose, lips pressed tight in grim presentiment.

"There is an unknown ellon in Elladan's rooms," Faelon began stiffly and paused, marking the muted glimmer of exasperated annoyance that passed through his Lord's eyes. Such a discovery was not unprecedented, and he made a vague gesture with his hand to signify this was not the news, continuing: "Alone, sprawled over the bed naked, and utterly insensible. He did not hear me enter, gave no response when I cried out, and his eyes are fully closed."

The Lore Master's disapproving frown vanished in concern as his brows travelled skyward; he hastened across the room to snatch up a kit of healing supplies from a cabinet. "Any sign of injury, any blood?"

"Nothing visible," Faelon followed him out the door and down the hall, expecting orders.

"Elladan?"

"Nay, he was not in the rooms. The evening meal was untouched as near as I could tell."

"All right. Fetch hot water and a basin, then find my son." Elrond strode quickly through the house, taking the back stairs as it was quicker, and entered his son's suite to find one of the cook's assistants frozen in the bedroom doorway, gawking in pale-cheeked dismay. She turned at his approach and began babbling her tale, for she'd found the unconscious person when she came to clear the dinner dishes away. Elrond dismissed her firmly but kindly as he surveyed the scene.

The linens were in disarray, twisted and half-poured upon the floor near the foot of the bed, garments scattered in haphazard fashion indicating a trail from the door to the mattress, and the ellon in question was indeed supine, spread-eagled in all his natural glory, redolent of sweat and spent seed. A tangled flow of gilded hair cascaded over the pillows and half obscured whatever talisman was attached to the fine gold chain that lay upon his neck. 

Elrond let pass this blatant evidence of Elladan's most recent debauchery and scanned the senseless ellon for what ailed him. He lay as pale and still as death; no sign of respiration inflated his lungs, and Elrond's heart clenched tight. In an instant he was kneeling on the mattress, one hand lifting the lolling head, the other pressed against the patient's neck. It was minutes before he felt a slow and sluggish pulse roll beneath his fingertips and he released a long breath of intense relief. The ellon inhaled and expelled a shallow breath of his own just then and Elrond carefully laid his head down. With the same delicacy, he lifted one eyelid to reveal glassy, nearly unresponsive irises, though the pupils contracted slightly. Basal metabolism was reduced to to the bare minimum, his body all but shut down to conserve strength.

Faelon entered and set about pouring steaming water into the basin as Elrond crushed athelas and other herbs, dropping them in. The healing fragrance filled the room, but the patient did not stir. A shared glance confirmed Elladan was not in the house and the servant departed to extend the search. 

"Discretely," intoned Elrond as he turned, rummaging in his supplies for Miruvor. A few drops on the lips should have brought the unconscious ellon round, but didn't. He bent closer and sniffed the lingering air near the lax, open mouth; no indication of poison revealed itself. Taking sharp shears from the kit, he scraped the pointed end against the underside of the slender foot, but detected no indication of feeling. He touched the bare chest above the heart, but the organ was still minutes from its next compression. 

The smooth skin felt cool and he slid his fingers over firm pectorals to caress a soft and dusky nipple, hoping to stimulate a reaction. There was no response and so he delved lower, fondling and tweaking flaccid genitals. Again, nothing stirred. Elrond's fingers froze and his brow creased as he probed the sensitive perineum. Abruptly he uttered a cry of amazement, bending closer, easing one leg aside and lifting the loose flesh of the hairless sac. What he discovered made his heart leap and stumble; the opening was narrow, inflamed, and oozing blood and semen.

"Nae (Alas), Elladan!" he groaned, heart now hammering at the implications. "What have you done?" The residual fluids allowed neither mystery nor mistake and he swallowed back a sour mouthful of saliva. 

Grim and troubled, he proceeded to perform a thorough physical examination and found no indications of injury, internal or external, though were three scars: in the left shoulder, the right thigh, and the right side, all old and faded but visible; proof of severe trauma near enough to being mortal for his uneasiness to escalate. Elrond was left without an alternative diagnosis for the coma beyond grieving sickness. The circumstances were ominous and he could not prevent imagining the worst. In all of Arda, there was but one realm of elves where such injuries were as likely among the young as the ancient. In that realm, there was one specific elf who would bear just such a set of scars, who would indeed be young enough to still be, or rather to have been mere hours ago, a virgin, and who would seek out Elladan. Elrond sat on the bed, sighing morosely as he dropped his face into his hands for a moment, trying to gather his resolve, praying his conclusions were wrong.

Then he stood; a healer's care was needed here first and foremost; a father's concerns must wait. Carefully and thoroughly he bathed the limp body with the athelas infusion, removing all the sticky effluvia of the evening's excesses, and positioned his patient in a more dignified pose. Only then did he take up lax, long-fingered hands and murmur the words required to bring forth the might of Vilya. A bright gleam enveloped the unconscious figure, clothing him in undulating radiance that slowly seeped inside, temporarily turning his skin translucent so that blood and organs were visible. The light faded rapidly, the skin resuming its normal opacity as the potent energy was absorbed. He lay as though sleeping, eyelids lifted most of the way, but Elrond knew it was a forced and unnatural repose. There was little permanent improvement for grieving this side of the sundering sea, as he knew all too well.

The transfusion of VIlya's energy thus completed, he moved away from the bed and retrieved a chair, set it near and seated himself within it. He watched, eyes traversing the alluring form and exquisite features, understanding Elladan's attraction acutely and viscerally, counting the passing seconds in mounting apprehension. It was taking too long; the soul sickness had advanced to a pathological depth with exceeding speed and he wondered if repetition of the treatment would be necessary. Even as the thought gelled, the patient inhaled a harsh, gasping breath and sat bolt upright, eyes wide, mouth agape, one hand clutching his breast and the other knotted in the sheets. He gave a sharp shout of pain and fell back, chest heaving, limbs flexing, neck arching as the spasm of agony rolled through him. At last he exhaled a long low groan and lay still, panting hard. He murmured something unintelligible in the sylvan tongue, but Elrond heard his son's name within it and scowled in dark displeasure. The ellon still had not registered his presence and looked to be about to retreat into oblivion.

"Can you hear me?" he queried softly and saw the jerk of startled muscles as the head came up and confused blue eyes peered at him. "You slipped into darkness," he explained seriously, "and I've brought you back, though the method is used only in the last extremity. The pain should ease fairly soon." Still the ellon stared at him in silent quandary and Elrond stood, moved closer, bent over the prone form and peered at him closely. "Do you know where you are?"

"Imladris." He managed the word with difficulty and laid his head down, swallowing hard, eyes closing again as fingers fluttered over his abdomen toward the scar in his side. "Where?"

Elrond stared in dismay at this contradictory response. "Yes, you are in Imladris." A faint nod of affirmation followed, minor movement of lips but no sound, and the patient volunteered nothing more. "You have a name?"

"Yes." A dark red tongue came out to lap at lips gone dry and slowly he dragged himself upright, scooting with much effort to the edge of the mattress. His feet rested gingerly on the floor as though the pressure of the plush carpet hurt their soles; his hands bracketed his head in delicate misery. Another groan sounded.

"What is it," Elrond prompted, voice flat and somewhat impatient. He watched the face lift to stare at him anew, bewilderment paramount. "Your name," the healer repeated.

"Oh. Legolas," the elf replied, voice low and strained. His lungs erupted a short, hacking cough and another groan; he folded over his abdomen, arms twitching as he tried to decide what to support, stomach or head, and he managed to use one for each. 

"Legolas?"

"Aye." He straightened himself with effort and pushed the thick mane away from his face, turning his sight on the imposing person interrogating him. "Who are you? Where is Elladan?"

"Legolas of Greenwood, youngest son of Thranduil?" Elrond's voice rang with dismay as his deductions were confirmed. No sooner had he spoken the words than he beheld an electrifying vision of the catastrophic effect this person's presence would wreak upon Elladan, indeed upon all of his family. He took a staggered step away, features ashen, a gasp escaping his heart, overwhelmed with the magnitude of the blow about to descend, then lunged forward and grabbed the Wood Elf's arm, tugging, trying to get him on his feet. "Get up! Bathe and dress yourself; you must leave here at once."

"Leave?" Legolas' legs could not support him and he wallowed in place, a dead weight as his assailant yanked on his arm. "Unhand me!" he demanded, struggling, and nearly fell over when he was suddenly released. He rubbed at his biceps, shaking, staring up at the stern countenance regarding him so coldly. The gaze tracked over his nude frame with a hint of distaste and disdain; he grew self-conscious and drew his knees closed, wrapped his arms about him. "Who are you? Where is Elladan?"

"I am Lord Elrond, Elladan's father." Arms akimbo, the Lord of Imladris watched this truth process through the ellon's scattered mind and saw a spark of hope dowsed instantly by wary tribulation. No doubt he presented a rather intimidating figure at the moment. "I am sorry to have to be so brusque, but it is for your well-being. You cannot remain in Elladan's company, especially in your condition. The malady is far advanced."

"Malady? Nay, being with Elladan will only do me good," complained Legolas. He was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to sleep in Elladan's arms. Where had he gone? With a jolt he suddenly focused on his specific location, perched naked on the edge of the mattress, what had transpired, and what the renowned healer could not help but know. He went pale as water and flicked the mighty Lord an anguished glance. A shudder racked his bones and he dropped his head to his hands again.

"Nay, staying here will certainly not help you," Elrond shook his head firmly, glaring down on the distrait ellon. "Elladan is unable to give you anything; can you understand? Not that he would refuse, but that he cannot and will only absorb what little strength you have. Indeed, you have nothing left to spare; you should not have come here, Legolas, especially not now." Elrond found he was irritated and angry; Galadriel had assured him this trouble was behind them. "You cannot fathom what he needs, what he seeks, and you are not fit to provide it even if you did. Manwë's Breath, have you any fate that is not unpropitious?" 

"I don't know what you mean." Legolas felt dread despair mounting in his mind, the joy he'd known in union with Elladan vanished. The august Lord's words laid a heavy burden on his heart that drained him further and the depth of his weariness again called him to sink into dreamless oblivion. Where was Elladan? Dark fears invaded; Elrond's speech implied Elladan had left him here, left him intentionally, left him alone.  _It cannot be so._  "Where…"

"I do not know where he is!" Elrond exploded, fists clenched as he raised them up and dropped them, provoked beyond his limits. He could not permit this ill-destined doom come to its fruition. "What brought you here? Here, the one place you should never come, yet here I find you naked and unconscious, spent and wasted in the sex-soiled sheets of my son's bed. Are you in the habit of yielding all to the first ellon that beckons you?" The words were cruel, given the ruddy evidence staining the linen, and he watched a dark flush of shame and anger cover Legolas' flesh as he curled inward trying to shield his bare body.

"You have not right to speak to me so," Legolas said, sullen and forlorn. "There has been no other before Elladan, as you surely know. I was meant for him and he for me. I could wait no longer."

"Elbereth!" Elrond paced the length of the room and back several times, agitated and nearly frantic. Legolas had no idea what danger he courted, but Elladan should have known. Where, indeed, was he? Faelon should have located him by now. A new thought struck him and he paused, gazing at the confused and humiliated ellon slumped forward, face hid beneath the long fall of flaxen hair. Perhaps Elladan's absence was providential. In three strides he was at the bedside and before reason could offer any objections, gathered Legolas under the arms and hoisted him up. Ignoring the flinching and futile efforts to get free, he half-carried, half-dragged him toward the bath chamber. 

"Let go! Daro!" Legolas found to his mortified pride he had no strength to extricate himself from this abduction.

"Nay, you cannot remain here," Elrond insisted and paused to tighten his hold, hauling him closer. "There is nothing for you here, Legolas. Elladan is gone; when he returns he will have forgot you were here. Another will be with him. You would not want to confront such a scenario, no more could you sustain your spirit, so depleted as it already is. Come, you must away before that transpires. Can you bathe yourself or do you require assistance?" he asked, meeting such stricken sorrow in the indigo eyes that it made his heart quail. 

'"Elladan, forget me? Even after… And you will cast me out?" Defeat defined the questions and provided the answers; Legolas' universe tilted toward a black abyss and he wanted to topple in and leave behind forever this life of abandonment and pain. He could not live on if Elladan turned him away.

"Nay, you must not slip away, Legolas, not here! Not now!" Elrond exhorted, wild with remorse, and shook the elf roughly, realising he'd been too hard, too cold, permitted anger and fear to rule his tongue and his actions. Immediately he calmed himself, sent a second pulse of energy flowing through the ring, and pressed Legolas firmly to his chest as the ailing elf went rigid and gave forth a sharp, bitter wail of agony.

"Why?" Legolas rasped, clutching the healer, uncertain what had just happened, shaking violently as a searing sensation of fire chased through his nerves and his vision failed. Fear caught at his heart and sent it racing wildly; he could barely hold a breath of air in his lungs while fragmented thoughts floated through his head. "What…what did you…?"

"Healing light, nothing more, but this kind of light is foreign to elf-kind; we were not made to retain it bodily. It will not cause serious damage, only temporary discomfort. You should begin to feel stronger in a moment." He continued to support him until the tremors ceased, then gave a comforting squeeze and eased him back slightly. One look into those beleaguered blue eyes and Elrond knew his attempt to avert fate was futile. He offered a half-hearted smile. "Better?"

"Yes," Legolas admitted, completely confused by the fabled Lord's erratic behaviour, one instant seeming to despise him, the next resuming a kindly manner. "I cannot leave, Hiren; you must see it." He could not meet Elrond's eyes, embarrassed by his weakness, the intimate circumstances, and the close embrace that held him.

"Of course you will not go," soothed Elrond, resigned, and blew out a small sigh. He eased his constraining clasp, wrapping an arm about the Woodland Prince's waist and guided him slowly, carefully to the bathing chamber. "Listen now, I will find Elladan; in fact I already sent someone searching."

"He hasn't left me?" A faint whisper of hope tinted the question and the reflection of it in Legolas' shy glance was painful to perceive.

"Nay, forget what I said; they were the words of a distraught father. Elladan, at such times as these, is not entirely himself and I feared…" Elrond stopped himself, not sure how much he should say until he had words with his son and learned the truth. He looked to find troubled blue eyes regarding him keenly and smiled reassurance. "Nay, do not despair. I am sure he has been detained by some unexpected cause. I have sent for him and he'll be here soon," he promised, not at all certain he would be able to keep his word. He felt Legolas' co-ordination return as his legs gathered his weight, though he trembled a bit, and they advanced more easily now without the ellon's resistance, Elrond holding tight to one arm lest he falter. He offered another smile and nodded encouragement when those wounded eyes sought his again. "I will find him. Do as I say, hên, and then come down to my office. I will send someone to bring you there." 

They reached the chamber and Elrond helped him climb into the deep copper tub, worried if Legolas would be able to tend such basic needs unaided, but hurriedly pumped in water until it lapped at his navel. "All right? Can you carry on alone?" A silent nodding, eyes averted, was the only reply, but long fingers reached for soap and cloth and began lightly rubbing. Elrond took the effort to wash as a positive sign. "Good, good," he encouraged, patting a slumped shoulder. "I'll gather your clothes."

He backtracked from the bedroom, picking up garments as he went, crossed the study, and eventually reached the door to the apartment where a forest green suede tunic had been stuffed rudely on the coatrack. The sight of it there quenched any hope he'd harboured that what had begun in such a roiling cauldron of misery and sorrow so long ago could be checked now. Elrond took the fabric in his hands and twisted it savagely, wishing he could unmake time and intervene before Elladan stepped into the trap, knowing he could do nothing and furious at his impotence to protect his child. Then he breathed a calming breath and unfurled the soft leather, smoothing away the wrinkles he'd crushed into it, and let his pity reach out to its owner. None of this was Legolas' fault and he stood to bear as much of the weight of the impending catastrophe as Elladan, if not more.

Another resigned sigh left the lore-master's lungs and he collected himself; he must not allow either of these two to perish. For Elladan's sake he must love Legolas and guard him as best he could. For both their sakes he must counsel Elladan closely and guide him to renounce the vow. If he dragged the Wood Elf into it with him… Elrond shuddered as the vision replayed. By the time he returned Legolas was washing his hair and he paused, watching, caught in the spell of beauty inscribed by the curve of the naked back, the lean strength of an archer's arms, the fair profile of high, soft cheeks upon which were inscribed the pale shadows of long, lowered lashes. He was struck suddenly and forcefully by the power of the ellon's courage and grace. Legolas' will was strong, regardless the infirmity of his stricken soul. Elrond decided that if anyone could defy fate it was this particular person, and he smiled. The bond was sealed as far as Legolas was concerned and now that it was, Elrond couldn't imagine anyone else who would suit Elladan so well.

He was caught staring as the archer completed his shampoo and stood, supporting himself carefully on a brass towel bar set into the wall, gaze and posture indicative of self-conscious embarrassment to find himself the object of such intensely appreciative scrutiny. At once Elrond went to him and helped him out, wrapped a towel about the dripping form, and lightly rubbed a bit, smiling now with genuine goodwill even as sadness inundated his heart. Already, without even trying, Legolas had endeared himself to the Elven Lord and the thought of losing him was a bitter thorn to pierce a heart already burdened. Elrond hugged him spontaneously and gently as though his injuries were physical and he might break, and tentatively the embrace was returned. Then he looked to the garments he'd gathered and realised he wasn't about to let Legolas leave Imladris; his assurances were honest after all. He turned to a tall cupboard and withdrew instead a soft robe and a pair of loose sleeping trousers.

"Welcome to my home and my family, Legolas, ion-en-gwaedh (son-by-bond). These will be a bit large, but should be comfortable; dress and wait in the sitting room. I will send for you as soon as Elladan is found." Another brief nod acknowledged the orders and Elrond left him there, striding through the apartment to its entrance where he opened the door to discover his elder son on the threshold.

 

TBC

* * *

  


  


  
_Oh, Sorrow dark_  
_and dense and deep bear me up, bear me_  
_for the way is steep and I cannot rise and stand upright_  
_to face the dawning day, its hours of cruel, revealing light_  
_which in some manner bold I must dare._  
_Some manner cool and calm and clear, within it we keep faith, me and thee_

_Oh, Sorrow raw_  
_and rank and rare, we wait for night and its quiet, watchful stars, eyes of bright glass_  
_that see me as I am and neither quail nor scoff nor weep despair._  



	2. Chapter 2

# Oh, Sorrow

#### A Legolas/Elladan Story by erobey, unbeta'd

## Something of Beauty yet Remains

  


####  _Eriador betwixt Angmar and the Ettenmoors_

"Enough of this. It is time."

The words were calm, quietly loosed into the wreaking air and declaimed with irreducible finality for those who could hear no more than that, and that was enough. The bitter weariness borne upon the syllables was lost to most; the barren anguish that forced them into life obscured so that just the expression of ending and passing came through. Yet there was also a sombre note of defeat, of futility; he tried to hide that but it grew ever louder and stronger as the years stretched on so that betimes even the men detected it, as now. That drew anger, for everyone's blood was still so high. Elladan turned from his comrades and moved across the plain, watching where his feet trod amid the refuse of battle, sword still to hand and ready. It stabbed down quickly, reflexively, finishing one among their own who lay upon that bloody field dwindling toward death, and his step did not falter.

"No." Brusque denial followed and was ignored and so the man came after him, staggering so great was his rage and so numerous the corpses underfoot that one snagged his boot. "This is but another raiding party; the main refuge of our foes has yet to be uncovered. If you leave now…"

"Nothing hinders you from continuing the campaign." Again, that cool, flat dismissal sounded, an undertone of bemusement in it, and these men could not understand that either, though most had come to accept it. Their leader had not.

"Do you go now, when we are so close to finishing this, and I will name you craven and foreswear our friendship!" 

A harsh gasp resounded from among the soldiers at this ultimatum, the actual source indistinguishable. Such raw fury defined Arador's threat that it was like a blade itself and the cut it made was deep, but still Elladan did not stop nor even pause. Another answered in his stead, as expected, as he knew he would.

"Be mindful, Arador, lest you call into being a fate you truly do not wish, for words have a power of their own." That voice was not so much calm as icy and replete with rebuke. Elrohir watched the man from a stern and reproving countenance, cleaned his sword or gore and seated it in its scabbard. 

Silence followed this familiar friction of metal against leather and the strained atmosphere tightened into restive tension as the Dúnadan Chieftain spun round to face Elrohir, the residual adrenalin of battle unabated. Motionless the company waited as their lord wrestled within himself and with his immortal kinsman, eyes locked with the elf, wills battling though the outcome was indisputable. Elrohir remained sorrowful but adamant, Arador angry and unrepentant. He did not want to mean those words, and yet in part he did. The man lost the staring contest, as would any man. He made an inarticulate, disgusted sound as his gaze averted and he gestured with his sword, a useless expression of frustration, before returning his troubled face to Elrohir.

"Is it time for you, also? Do you abandon us to fly home after your brother?"

That brought an audible rebuke. "Father!" The younger man moved to confront Arador, for to insult Elladan first and now his twin was inexcusable, but a kinsman barred his way. This was not something he could mediate.

Elrohir saw him and recognised the desire to mend the rift, but it was unnecessary and he smiled, a soft laugh arising from his heart that was a little dark beneath its mirth. "To think that dour Arathorn should be the peacemaker here," he said and proceeded through the carnage, his intent now to bring healing for the wounded, and spoke to Arador over his shoulder as he summoned two aids to him with a beckoning curl of his fingers. "No, for me it is not time. Soon, but not yet. Even so, it is strange to hear you speak of abandonment, given our service to your father and your father's father, and many generations before that, even prior to the cause for which we now fight came to pass. Do not fret, Arador, I will stay on. We will enjoin another battle together, or two, before I must follow my brother home."

His words shamed the man and Elrohir knew it, but Arador was too proud to beg pardon and so the anxious strain remained, suspended in the rank and steaming air. There was a chorus of swords being sheathed and the men began gathering their dead, thankfully small in number, and dragging the carrion into a massive heap to be burned. It was high summer and not a whiff of a breeze arose to ease the humid heat; the stench of decay was already rising. Elrohir tended the injured quickly, enough to stabilise them so to be quit of this place as soon as possible. In short order the company mounted, the wounded borne by their comrades, the dead borne by the horses they had ridden in life, and set forth in silence across the plain, heading ever northward. Arador led, his son beside him, Halbarad between them and the elf, the rest in ranks behind them. 

Elrohir exchanged a rueful glance with Halbarad and shrugged. He regretted the harsh reprimand, but that only produced a moment of self-mockery, for had he not been the one pontificating about the strength of speech to alter fate? When it came to it, though, he was also too proud to offer the apology that would set things right between them, and that warned him as nothing else could that it was indeed time to follow Elladan home, away from the killing and the weight of the blood, slipped from the bonds their vow imposed if only for a few days to bandage up his battered soul. He must heed that caution.

"Arador," he called and met aggrieved eyes that almost made him reconsider, but the danger was too great. "I misspoke; it is time. I go after my brother." Waiting for no reply, for the indignant disbelief that filled Arador's expression was answer enough, Elrohir wheeled his charger out of the van and set him cantering in Elladan's wake. 

"Apostate!" shouted Arador and turned his horse to watch him go. In high wrath over both twins' desertion, he hastened after them, determined to bring his grievance before Lord Elrond, leaving the Dúnadain under command of his son Arathorn and his kinsman Halbarad. He caught up to Elrohir who deliberately slowed the pace to give his brother time to gain a greater lead, understanding Elladan's need for solitude. They did not encounter him and made the ford of the Bruinen a mere day behind, but in the course of that brief interval everything had changed irrevocably.

  
_Something of beauty._

The phrase held his thoughts captive, a lure for his wayward and careworn soul, and Elladan hurried over the dismal plains toward Imladris, sparing only time to rest the horse and then he paced, irritable and impatient to proceed. In these abbreviated pauses he did not reflect, too agitated in heart and mind to do so, but once mounted and cantering overland through the rasping grass, then the rhythm and the motion soothed him and he could think.

_Something of beauty yet remains, awaiting your discovery._

They were not his thoughts but Galadriel's and represented the summation of the wisdom she'd tendered to him once news of his dreadful quest reached her. He liked to recall them and it was part of his ritual to do so, part of letting go of one reality so to engage another, or perhaps it was more truthful to say he needed this ritual to draw him out of his warped and darkened world of vengeance and violence. His grandmother believed there was still goodness and joy to be found in the world, in life. Because she was certain, he believed. He wondered if she knew the power of her words; decided she must. 

Once she understood what he and his brother had sworn, so great was her concern she'd travelled to Imladris and confronted her grandsons there in their father's house. What she said to Elrohir he didn't know for they never discussed it, though he assumed it must have been similar to the words she spoke to him. She had tried at first to turn him from the vow, expounding an eloquent recount of the consequences that could ensue from rash oaths, no matter how heartfelt when first loosed into the world, bequeathed a life of their own by the breath of the body that invoked them. How quickly Vairë would snatch them up, how unpredictable would be the newly spawned variations wrung from the simple, noble intent of those honourable words. None could say what sorrows might spring up because of this.

Sorrows sprang up all the same, whether he would pledge his sword or no, he had countered, angry. Should he do nothing and suffer the thought that others would endure the same terrors and tortures his mother had borne? How could she care so little for the plight of her own daughter, born of her blood and bone?  _'It is because I care so much for her and for you, child of my daughter's blood and bone, that I entreat you to reconsider. She would have you follow her instead of this, you and your brother.'_

Follow her? She wanted him and Elrohir to sail? Struck dumb for several seconds, Elladan had only stared at Galadriel's pleading countenance, noticing for the first time the Ages of pain in her ravaged eyes; eyes filled with first-hand comprehension on the subject of vows gone awry. At length he drew air and answered, firmly but with sadness.  _'I cannot, not yet, though I pray that day may come. For now there is in me only black anger and a morbid thirst for killing, and I dare not take those things to her lest she blame herself for them. She is my mother; I would not add to the darkness crowding her spirit.'_

Then Galadriel enfolded him in her arms and shed tears upon his hair, but spoke no more of forsaking the vow. At length she gave him needful instruction on the keeping of his soul and named for him the signs he must not ignore if he ever wished to make that journey over sea with hroa and fëa intact:

_'This world you love will dim and diminish so that those things of nature that were your delight you will neither see nor hear. The wild landscape of the empty plains, the soaring peaks that tempt and challenge, the cold torrents and the quiet pools, these will no longer register in your awareness. No birdsong will reach you; no rain will cleanse you, no gentle glade or shaded knell appease your wrath or soothe your soul. Colour will drain from the land until there is only a dull and grim shading in greys and lesser greys._

_'Then the people you love and the comrades you befriend will grate upon your patience, testing both your courtesy and your temper. Every word will seem an offence and an insult; every look a sneer or a snarl, every comfort offered appear as a trade for some curried favour. You cannot wait that long, Elladan, or it would be too late. When all the world about you goes grey and even the sky is but a blank white glare, then you must turn for home with all haste. Shelter in the light of Vilya or come to Lorien, if it is nearer, and let Nenya wash away the stain that blinds your vision and robs your soul of any delight.'_

He remembered the chill that took hold of him then and the dread that fell upon him as she described the stages of fading in such succinct terms, her voice trembling as she tried to be brave. Her foresight saw and the vision terrified her, and her fear transferred to him so that he went willingly into her arms as he had gone to his mother when he was just a child frightened by the cries of wolves in the night. Then she found her strength and drew apart enough to see his eyes and smiled gently, soothing his hair with her delicate hand.  _Nay, fear not, for even when the world turns drab and bereft of colour and joy and life, something of beauty yet remains awaiting your discovery._

Elladan smiled, reliving that moment, and felt the healing begin as he anticipated the comforts of home. He had obeyed her assiduously, yet the first time he'd realised he had to go came as a shock, revealed in a casual comment from among the Rangers:  _'You need not kill them all personally, Elladan. We be but men, but we have swords and know how to use them skilfully. Indeed, you taught me yourself, remember?'_  Laughter had followed, a break in tension after another bloody struggle, and Elladan had not found it amusing. He found he wanted to skewer the offending soldier and watch him bleed out. That was sufficient to make him realise it was almost too late; he'd departed immediately and without a word. 

Entering the valley, he'd gone to the House of Healing and had his wounds tended, but that had not brought about the peace he so needed. Fractious and irritable, he'd picked at the evening meal and growled at family and friends alike, taking himself to the Hall of Fire reluctantly, scowling as though to disdain the merriment and the music there. It was all farce, a means to cover his fear that he had waited too long and now must fade. That was when he saw her watching him, not with concern and worry as it seemed everyone else did, but with hunger and appreciation and open invitation. She hadn't even waited for a flirtatious seduction, coming to him and leading him away. She gave him solace and sated both her passions and his. By dawn they were inseparable; by two turns of Ithil they parted amicably. He left the valley and resumed the rigorous work his vow demanded, renewed and rejuvenated.

Ever since, he returned to Imladris eagerly, searching for and finding diversion, succouring his desires and salving his soul in whatever person seemed most beautiful and most willing to accommodate his darkness. As the years passed, this partner turned out to be male more often than female, for the vehemence of the intimate encounters was generally more violent than a lady wished to endure for the sake of pleasure. He spent his rage as he spent his seed and after a month or two of this lusty cure his guilt was assuaged. He became once more Celebrian's son, alive in the world and able to appreciate it fully. It became his pattern, accepted, albeit with some worry and reluctance by those who loved him, and his reputation for possessing an almost insatiable appetite for rough bed-sport spread through the vale as the seasons wound away into years and the years turned into centuries.

And then he ventured from Lothlorien one morn with the notion to enlist with the Wood Elves, for the talk of the Necromancer was growing and Celeborn believed their struggle to survive was dire.

Elladan pulled up short, his charger snorting and dancing, as this thought intruded, disturbed that it had done so. It was definitely not part of his ritual to think of that journey. Quickly he forced its memory down, upset to have it arise here at the borders of Imladris, so near to safety and healing and hope. Ten days and nights he'd ridden without that event breeching his defences and he would not give it precedence. He would not think about that; it was over. 

At mid-morning he crossed the ford and saluted the guards, galloping for the last Homely House, wondering why Elrohir's endurance was greater than his, why the sickness did not seem to poison his brother so sorely. Few were the times they had returned together, though generally Elrohir followed quickly. Invariably they resumed their covenant together. He shrugged off the unanswerable complaint as he dismounted, pleased by the numerous calls of welcome that rang through the courtyard, moved by the heart-felt embrace of his father, gladdened by Erestor's hearty slap on the shoulder. He took himself to his rooms, bathed, donned fresh clothes, made himself alluring, as he thought, though others saw primarily the predatory glint in his eyes. He strode for the kitchens and ordered an elaborate meal to be taken to his rooms, gave instructions to have the linens freshened and the bath readied, chose what wines and liquors he wanted. All jumped to his clipped commands and scurried to carry them out and it pleased him. Now, he need but choose.

He was not taciturn or dour at the midday meal, though he only nibbled, sitting at his father's right hand and engaging Erestor and Glorfindel in amiable conversation, though his mind was far removed from most of it. He saw their glances one to another, but none would dare jibe about his reasons for being home. There were no ribald jests or suggestions as to who his designated partner might be, but none missed that Elladan's keen eyes swept the crowded hall, assessing potential lovers. Few met his gaze and those that did quickly turned aside. 

Elrond observed his eldest keenly and openly; there was no point attempting to hide his concern and if he was less than happy over the remedy he kept silent. Elladan brought himself home regularly and while the wounds in his spirit had not closed, at least his soul was not bleeding away into the ether. None of the amorous affairs amounted to anything; his son's heart was never engaged nor were those of his temporary bed-mates, and so, satisfied over the condition of Elladan's health, he permitted his eyes to remain blind. Elrond felt a small prick of alarm, noting the ragged edge of frustration and discontent contaminating the region surrounding his son and knew the cause for that, too: today no one answered the bold challenge of his hungry eyes. Hoping to divert him, Elrond spoke.

"Ionen, many have departed since last you were home. Our people diminish."

"So I see," Elladan frowned. "No folk from Lorien have moved here since?"

"Nay, nor has any couple brought forth new children. Times are dark and growing darker. It may be time to consider…" Elladan suddenly focused on him so sharply and with such fury that Elrond paused and reached out to take his shoulder in a strong grip. "Steady, Elladan."

"I know what you would say, but it is not time. I will not sail, not yet." His voice was brittle and overly loud; conversations at other tables grew faint and faltered; eyes flickered near then shied away.

"That was not what I would say," Elrond reprimanded gently. "I was going to elicit your thoughts on renewing the alliance between Gondor and Arnor. Soon, there may not be enough of us left to carry on and all must then sail or perish. I would keep my vow to Gil-galad, but my patience wanes."

"Forgive my sharp tongue, Adar," Elladan gave a brief laugh at his own expense and inclined his head at his father's instantaneous absolution. He addressed the political question. "That is certainly true, but Arador is not the one for whom we wait. He has trouble keeping his own kin loyal, for he is harsh and relentless in his desire to reclaim the lands his ancient fathers ruled."

"It will need a strong and relentless hand to hold those lands," remarked Glorfindel.

"True, but Arador dreams of glory, of estates and wealth and comforts and adoring subjects. It is personal for him, a desire for power and control, to show that upon him rests the favour of the Valar."

"Men have ever desired power over their kin even as most men are willing to let one among them have it. That being true, Arador may indeed be the best choice. We need a strong leader willing to unite the people and heal the divisions wrought at Eärendur's death. If we wait much longer, our enemy may become so entrenched that all the men of Gondor and Arnor combined cannot unseat him. Woe to all of Middle Earth then," spoke Erestor.

Elladan set down the goblet he had just raised to his lips without tasting its contents and met his old tutor's gaze, his own troubled. "He asks for tribute." That shook the others and they all sat up and stared at him, dumbstruck.

"Tribute?" Elrond finally barked. "From whom?"

"Fornost mainly," Elladan shrugged. "Even to Bree and the borders of the Shire, but also the scattered people throughout Rhudaur and the few who have ventured back into Cardolan."

"Ai Valar!" Glorfindel swore. "He would tax the Halflings? By what right does he so?"

"None," observed Elrond archly.

"He is nursing a sore in his heart that grows with every year he breathes," explained Elladan, "resenting the people of the divided kingdom who supported Eärendur's lesser sons and broke the land apart, thus causing the rule of Numenor in the north to collapse. He feels no love for them and is jealous of the effort his army makes to defend such 'disloyal subjects' without recompense. The Hobbits especially inhabit a rich land he deems men should possess and says that is land within the bounds of old Arthedain, so a tribute should be paid by any who would dwell there."

"He has confided this to you?" Elrond was appalled.

"Yes, and to Elrohir and Halbarad, who in turn complains of him and his harsh treatment of the poor folk who have nothing to tithe and no men to swell the ranks of the Rangers. Even Arathorn argues with him constantly over this, yet no voice will Arador hear but his own, no pain does he feel save that he imagines himself to bear, and when pressed too hard claims he is doing all that must be done to assure there is something for his son to inherit."

"No, he is not the one," conceded Erestor with a sigh. "I thank you for this candid report, Elladan. I shall have to summon him."

"As soon as may be," Elrond agreed and rose from the table, the others following suit. With his elder son home, Elrond had no desire to go to the Hall of Fire and watch the selection of the next - he knew not what name to use: lover, partner, victim?  _All of that._  He grimaced mildly and bade his son good rest, pulling him near to kiss his brow ere he left for his private chambers.

Erestor and Glorfindel had no such compunction, curious to see the conclusion of the hunt, and openly trailed Elladan as he prowled down the corridor. Suddenly he stopped and faced them, smiling in a wicked way that made them want to cringe. "I think I spied Lindir heading out through the kitchens. I need to have a word with him if you will excuse me?" He didn't wait for their reply as he changed course and left the house, intent upon crossing the minstrel's path in the gardens. Seneschal and Balrog-slayer traded doubtful glances over it.

The singer was not interested in Elladan's proposal, favouring a more romantic encounter with a lady fair instead of a warrior, and could not be cajoled into any novel experience, though he did promise to stroll beneath Elladan's balcony once the moon reached its zenith and sing a few ballads. Elladan was not in good humour when he reached the Hall of Fire. The vast chamber was surprisingly full, considering all his offers had been rejected before he could even voice them. Of course, many wagers had been set on who would willingly have him in so dark a mood; he knew it well and did not care about that. His need was too great. He searched now for anyone who had not been at table, any face not turned aside for fear of catching his roving eye. 

Yet it was not sight that first discovered the ellon, but his ears, for a musical laugh arose above the music and when he turned to mark its source he found blue eyes regarding him from a smiling countenance so fair he caught his breath and forgot to breath for a moment.

_Something of beauty._

Tall and slender, he stood in a half-shadowed alcove near the open archway to the gardens, a bounty of golden hair loose about his shoulders. He wore elegant attire meant to accentuate his allure that could not conceal the tempered strength of a warrior's physique. Alone, he exuded that aura of solitary self-sufficiency that so effectively made strangers keep their distance, yet he was most definitely on the prowl and gave Elladan a thorough inspection. The smile he tendered was one of recognition and relief and unbounded desire. He came forth boldly and stood before the stunned orc slayer, and when he spoke the words made Elladan forget his pat and practised seduction:

"I have been waiting for you such a long time."

 

TBC

* * *

  


  


  
_Oh, Night compassionate and colourless and sweet,_   
_stare upon this face of horror, sorrow, horrow, harrow_   
_and soothe the Hollow-husk, the empty heart where once my soul thrived. Succour me_   
_with the distant, indifferent caress of infinity that warns, cajoles,_   
_and promises that none of this matters, none of it, and all will pass_   
_just as soon as I do, following my soul and its endless morrows into oblivion._

 


	3. Chapter 3

# Oh, Sorrow

#### A Legolas/Elladan Story by erobey, unbeta'd

## Residuum

"It is ever new, happening now, raw and real, and I can't forget the blood and the screaming. Plenty of both I've seen and heard before, but not like this. I thought the screaming was the worst until I saw the blood: standing pools of it dark and dank and too thick to soak into the ground, smears of it splashed over pale flesh, delicate red droplets sprayed upon every green leaf in sight." 

"Who was screaming?"

"We've lived for vengeance these many long centuries now, you and I, and in all this time I've held silence to be the more dire, signifying death or its near approach. We've heard all manner of cries: of hatred and rage, derangement and defeat, rallying cries and shouts to flee, death rattles and the pleas of the cowardly bargaining for mercy with the lives of their own kin. We've heard and shouted war cries of all manner from primitive howls to challenges wrought in ancient speech echoing out of the far distant past when our people were in their ascendency. I say to you, never have I heard such screams as these and hope never to again."

The solemn vehemence of these words invoked an edgy quiet rendered more disturbing by the muted murmur of the well-mannered fire. They sat near the hearth in the dim and dancing incandescent gleam, features cast in shades of amber and vermilion, hunched close across the table, ignoring the finery and the comfort revealed by the undulating flames and their cavorting shadows, heads nearly touching, the speaker with his brow hid behind hands that shielded and supported his lowered face, his brother still and attentive, eyes anxious and bright. The seconds seeped away up the chimney with the smoke and no more was said, as though Elladan had withdrawn into the harrowing scene that disturbed his rest and needled his mind to distraction, and so he had. 

The first indications of trouble were subconscious; that silent, instinctive tightening of the nerves and the gut experienced before scent or sound brought more concrete evidence of danger, and such signs were to be expected when traversing the Anduin Valley near to Dol Guldur. Perhaps that was why he did not extend his senses or hasten his steed. Had he done so, perhaps the outcome would have been different. As it was, by the time he urged the horse for speed everything was over and he could only snatch up the survivor and race for help.

The screams were horrific, unholy shrieks of dread terror, female, high pitched and continuous, the last sounds of life a soul extrudes from the body that houses it as the two are ripped asunder. Rumbling underneath the relentless howl came dark words from a Black Tongue and a multitude of cackling and hissing beasts emitting what passed for laughter among their foul kind. The noise chilled his very marrow and that single second of time elapsed as his mind shrugged off the shock and the instinctive fear, snapped into rage and cold, savage, inexorable hunger for vengeance. His sword was drawn before that second transpired, unsheathed in the echoing torment polluting the air, and no command was required to send the charger flying over the grassy plain and under the eaves of the forest. Abruptly the screaming ceased, cut off, no breath left to feed it, no soul extant to sustain it, and Elladan's fury expanded tenfold. Even as he opened his mouth to call down his doom upon these foes, another voice rose amid the silent woods.

A young voice, so lost, so bereft, so unhinged, beseeching forgiveness, crying incoherent accusations, abominable curses, promises of death and revenge. Within them rang the sweet clamour of finely made and deadly steel clashing with crude iron and dense bodies; he could hear the blade's sharpness, its keen edge and its flexible length slicing and stabbing, disembowelling and dismembering. He could feel the speed and skill of its owner, magnified by rabid grief and untempered madness into strength that knew no limit. New yammering welled up like sluggish blood from deep and mortal wounds: the beasts' astonishment to find their might abridged, themselves beaten and dying. 

Elrohir shifted uneasily and reached out to lightly touch his brother's arm. "Who was screaming, Elladan?"

A deep, shuddering breath accompanied a startled motion as Elladan straightened and uncovered his eyes, rubbing his weary countenance with his hands before laying them flat upon the table top. He took a sip from a cup at his elbow and trained his sight into its depths as he set it down again. 

"His mother was screaming, begging me to save her child from so hideous an end: 'To me, for the sake of my son! Save him, please!' That is what she shrieked to me as her gaze and mine locked. It was the last her voice was used to make words and thereafter all noise that issued from her mouth was that of an animal in the throes of death. I would do as she bade me and so I did, but the child got loose from me and was taken, too." Elladan fell silent, lost in contemplation of the abhorrent scene.

"He got loose?" Elrohir could hardly form the words, heart suddenly weighted with woe, unable to move the blood through him efficiently so that he felt chilled and shivered.  _What were you doing there?_  He wanted to scream the words, to grab Elladan and shake him hard, berate him for being there. He suppressed the mental query and the mad urges it provoked and shivered anew, detesting to hear the tale, morbidly determined to do so. "You proceeded to rescue the child, but lost him before delivering him to his kin? What happened?"

Now it was Elladan's turn to shift about in discomfort, for there were some things he had never told anyone and was not sure he wished even his twin to know. Elrohir was angry and frightened, hide it though he would, and prodded for the truth in resentful dread. Yet that truth was not something to place between them like a prize to be shared. It was sacred to him, the pact betwixt him and the traumatised child to hold hidden in his heart forever the debasement and the unnatural depravity unleashed that day. 

Elladan joined the melee when it was almost over and proceeded to cover the child's back, dispatching three ghouls before finding the lethal silver sabre swooping toward him from below. He parried it with the ponderous weight of his long sword and the clear knell pealing out from the collision overprinted the raucous cacophony of battle and in its diminishing overtones silence returned. Knife and wielder staggered down beneath the force of the impact, the young ellon on his knees, but immediately recovered and leaped back, blade up and ready, and their eyes locked.

"Sîdh," soothed Elladan, staring into glaring red-shot eyes, into a hollowed and harrowed and riven soul. He raised his empty hand, open and entreating, but his sword hand remained at the ready. "It is over; you have prevailed, penneth, and I am not your enemy."

Brittle respiration filled the space around them and Elladan dared not move, refused to break from that anguished glare, held the raw, brutalised gaze in heart-broken impotence as it transformed, rage melting away, implacable reality crystallising into unbearable sorrow and despair. The shining knife glinted, darting noiselessly into the pliable flesh of a naked belly, and Elladan shouted in dismay as he leaped forward and caught the killing hand, drew out the blade, cradled the crumpling, bloody youth before he collapsed atop the corpse of one of the orcs he'd just slain. He lay unmoving in Elladan's embrace and the shock of this slight weight filling his arms jolted him into action. Sheathing his sword still smeared with gore, he shouldered the battered body and mounted the horse in almost one motion. 

They burst into a gallop, tracking back over the wreckage left by the retreat of the orcs, but almost at once the stallion stalled, dancing sideways and neighing a short bugle of distress. There upon the trampled ground lay the murdered elleth, naked and cruelly dismembered, head from torso, legs and arms hacked innumerable times, breasts reduced to bloody pulp, internal organs spilling through the gash that split her from navel to vagina.

Elladan hadn't any curse vile enough to express his horror to see this and the next instant he knew the child had seen, had seen it all and lived long enough to exact his revenge. He wanted to get down and gather her remains, bury them or burn them, but the child was lax in his arms. Death was imminent, trickling out of him in vitally precious burgundy fluid and pale, visible tendrils of shimmery light. At once he jerked free the cloak upon his shoulders and wrapped him tight, pulled him close against him and bent lips to a pointed ear.

"Stay with me; this is not your fate but theirs, and you must defy them. You can survive; you must survive. She would want you to live. Hear? You must live for her or the victory is theirs." He whispered the words fiercely, passionately, filling them with the overwhelming realisation that he did not want this child to die in his arms. "You must live for me; I cannot bear to lose you to such an end." The testament slipped past his lips before his mind knew he wanted to speak it and he wondered at the depth of emotion behind it.

Elrohir touched his arm again and Elladan smiled sadly at the mixture of anxious compassion and apprehensive jealousy contained in the brief connection. That was sacred, too, their unique relationship, and in the end he found it to be the stronger axiom. He only hoped Elrohir would understand why he'd held back. He needed his brother's comfort unconditionally, not his possessive, oppressive need to control and protect.

"Elladan." Elrohir seized his wrist and squeezed reassurance, feeling all this pass through his brother's heart, a surge of guilty shame supplanting his underlying rancour. "Tell me what happened." For a time Elladan only stared into his soul, lost in the searing visions of the past, and finally bowed his head in assent, looked again to the flames languidly dancing over the incandescent coals.

"It was already happening before I came upon them, for the battle was far advanced. The clamour of fighting drew me there, but those screams nearly drove me back. That and the dreadful pall of terror that gripped my heart as I galloped beneath the trees. It was familiar to me, yet the impact was magnified a thousand fold. I think my mind knew my spirit wouldn't bear the weight of it. I was assailed by a physical sensation of heavy dread, palpable like a burden upon my body as though I were being buried under a fall of stones, buried alive. Nonetheless, I resisted the urge to turn tail and flee. 

"She was screaming; the child was screaming, too, pleading help for his mother. They were in the very centre of the battle, why I still do not know. He was defending her against a ring of orcs, who in turn were harried by the warriors attempting to break through and reach their kin, so that the child was alternately beset and uncontested. In the tranquil seconds he struggled futilely to to get her up; she could not rise for the horse lay atop her leg and its weight held her trapped. He was…" Elladan paused, unable to continue, and shut his eyes tight against the image.

The charger was racing again, darting amid the trunks of towering beeches, following the enemy's destructive track, and before a league fled beneath its hooves a party of warriors came riding toward them; no more than six, all of them stained with gore and bleeding freely from wounds untended and ignored, knives and bows in hand and cold hatred contorting their faces. They drew up as one and stared at Elladan, then a cry erupted from one and he pushed closer, harried eyes leaping between the senseless child and his saviour.

"He lives," Elladan announced quickly. "The mother is dead."

"Dead!" the low lament rippled through the warriors and up into the limbs and Elladan looked up sharply to find many more archers perched around them. He steadied his quickening pulse; their bows were not armed. From above, someone called orders for a company to go back and gather her remains, and Elladan was glad for it, not wanting to tend this duty himself. He had no need to point the way for it was obvious and at any rate he was soon distracted by the distraught ellon approaching on horseback.

"Give him to me!" he demanded, inching closer, arms outstretched. "He is my son; give him to me!"

Without a word Elladan transferred the fallen child to his father's arms and watched the quick inspection, winced at the sharply indrawn air and frantic cry as the injuries were hastily catalogued. Then he turned his charger about and raced away beneath the trees in desperate hope to save the child, all that remained of the embattled warriors following. Elladan joined them, unwilling to depart without knowing the fate of the youth or the history of this disastrous skirmish. Suddenly one of the archers dropped from the heights onto his horse, settling behind him firmly, and the charger made no objection beyond a toss of his noble head. Elladan met the warrior's eye over his shoulder.

"Are you in need of assistance?" he asked warily.

"I am," replied the ellon. "Can this steed go no faster?" Even as he spoke he touched his heel to the charger's flank and elicited an increase in velocity.

Elladan smiled despite the dire situation. "Gladly I will share my mount if you will safeguard me to the place where your kin are carrying that young one."

"You need no protection now or ever, even beyond the changing of the world," declared the archer. "I am Giliach and that young one is my cousin, Legolas. Which one are you?"

"Elladan." The question, though generally expected, nonetheless startled him a bit, never having imagined the Wood Elves knew anything of him and his twin, but he answered evenly enough and asked a question of his own. "What happened here?"

"We are at war," Giliach stated, his tone exasperated as though every fool breathing air must know this. "What brought you hither? We never see the folk from over Hithaeglir near our borders."

"I was in Lothlorien and thought to come this way, for talk of the troubles here reaches the Golden Wood." Elladan did not really have an answer to give; he had no clear understanding of why he'd travelled through Nan Anduin past Dol Guldur when he never had before. This was not lost on Giliach, who gave a quiet snort.

"Whatever the cause, I am grateful. Not only I, but all of Greenwood owes you a debt that can never be remitted."

That seemed an unnecessary exaggeration and Elladan gave his companion an incredulous glance. The ellon studied this mild bewilderment and then suddenly gave a harsh laugh. 

"You do not know!"

"Know what?"

"Of course you do not know; the exalted Noldor of Imladris take no notice of the humble sylvans of Greenwood."

"What is it I should know?" Elladan snapped, irritated by this barbed taunt in light of the effort just rendered on his part.

"That Thranduil is his father; Legolas is the only child remaining to him now." GIliach paused and registered the slight start signifying Elladan's surprise. "So you do know who Thranduil is, then."

Elladan refused to acknowledge that, saying instead, "Verily, having lost the mother, no father could countenance the child be destroyed, too. I only wish I had arrived sooner to prevent what was done to her, and to him."

"He saw all, then," the grim archer mourned and sealed his lips tightly, unable to say more.

"Elladan? Please, continue." Elrohir's gentle but impatient tug upon his arm brought Elladan out of the past and he resumed speaking. 

"He was desperate to the point of hacking off her leg at the hip to get her free, but he couldn't. I saw the blade rise up, but he couldn't. He wanted me to do it, for he knew even as I did, as she did, that the horse could not be moved by one or even by two in the midst of the onslaught. Our eyes met as I charged toward him, his went to the sword in my hand and back to mine. He saw the truth in them: I could not do it either, would not do it. The next instant I snatched him up and he cursed me most foully, fighting against my hold. He sliced his bloody knife across my arm and thus slipped my grasp. He went back for her, but she wasn't there." He faltered again and covered his eyes, sickened by the memory. "Once I secured the boy, the other warriors abandoned her to her fate, forming a rearguard to protect us. The orcs were thus free to shift the dead horse and take her alive."

"Ai, Muindor," Elrohir sighed. This was too much like their mother's doom and to hear that Elladan was exposed to this crisis without anyone he loved near at hand made his spirit sick with grief and remorse.  _Why was I not there with you?_  He withheld this from his brother, too, knowing the answer was not complimentary to him. Elladan had parted from him to heal and renew himself in Lorien, parted because he had sated his hunger for destruction and death while Elrohir had not. "You went after them."

"Aye." Elladan sat back and inhaled deeply, released the air in slow measures, shook his head in self-reproof. "By the time I reached them, she was dead and he soon to follow her. I staunched the wounds and dressed them with haste, carried him back to his people. He was alive when I left Greenwood, but there has been no word all these many days and I am forbidden to return there. My inquiries go unanswered. I need to know he survived."

"Forbidden? How so if you were the cause of the child's rescue?" Elrohir waited for details, but his brother was closed off again, hiding the horror of it inside, his expression detached, his mind entranced by the shadow dance of memory.

They rode on in silence, passing at length through the site of the ambuscade that had precipitated such a grave result. The wholesome weald was marred, churned and ruptured and strewn with the seeping corpses of orcs and elves and horses; among them moved a few sylvan archers deployed to recover the dead and dispose of their defeated foes. Every eye investigated Elladan as he crossed the place and a few voices hailed him in gratitude and dignity, calling him Lachenn Tawarendil, Noldorin friend of the woods. He raised his hand and dipped his head solemnly to acknowledge their lauds. 

Soon they reached a set of high gates set between the trunks of two mighty trees soaring skyward so high it was dizzying for sight to follow them to the canopy. These abutted other bolls, ancient and mighty, standing side by side by side so closely that they made an impenetrable, living wall that stretched beyond the limit of elven sight. The barrier was standing open but a multitude of warriors milled within and without, all hoping to catch sight of the unexpected outlander, and a paroxysm of misery and agitation swept through them as the bitter outcome of the ambush preceded its survivors. Once beyond this landmark, the galloping horses slowed and swerved aside into a fair, green dell ringed by the giant oaks and watered by a clear brook. There were people there waiting; it was obviously an encampment with provisions and medical attendants. One of these came quickly to receive the wounded child as all followed close behind. They gathered near the stream where the healer laid the patient down for treatment.

Now Elladan hung back a few paces yet near enough to observe what manner of lore the healers owned, unwilling to impose yet likewise unwilling to leave the young one in any but the most capable hands. That he knew much of healing from his father he did not announce, though it cost much to bite his tongue, and he paced to and fro as the wounds were cleansed and stitched and bandaged, hoping for some indication that the prognosis was positive. It took time, as he'd known it must. After some time, a soldier came and brought him water to drink and bade him clean away the stains of battle a ways further downstream. Elladan sensed this was not an offer but a demand and he complied, accepting the garments provided and donning them after his hasty toilet. He returned to the glen and found a place had been made for him to keep vigil with the rest: a blanket lain upon the turf and over it was cast a cloak of royal richness. He rested there, tense and troubled as a soft murmur of chanting voices met his ears. Not only the healers, but all of the people gathered were voicing their prayers and charms, and Elladan added his own.

The bright, warm sunlight and the twitter of birdsong stood out, incongruously juxtaposed against the sombre mood, for the glade was filling with the sylvan folk, not merely warriors but citizens of all kinds, all ringing the little knot of kinfolk and medics poised near the fallen child, keeping a respectful distance, most on their knees. Giliach had hurried to join his uncle and cousin and no one seemed to take note of the stranger among them for a time. Yet, as the minutes fled by Elladan felt the influence of potent energy coalescing in the clearing, beneficent and clean like the soul of the forest or some sweet susurrus of the divine. Uncertain if this was really a manifestation of the deity the sylvans worshiped or a collective outpouring of their own essential light, Elladan decided it didn't matter, for here was that cogent sylvan magic fabled throughout elvendom, and he was pleased to believe Legolas would recover.

Suddenly a hoarse cry resounded, both jubilant and stricken, as Thranduil fell upon his nephew, the two weeping and laughing together, for Legolas had stirred and regained his mind almost the exact instant Elladan acknowledged the power at work, as though he'd been awaiting Elladan's implicit determination, the seal of certainty to bind his earlier demand upon the child to live. The whole crowd gave voice to praises for their forest god and broke into song, but their jubilation was interrupted by the wounded prince's broken discontent that took the form of a diatribe so raw, so honest, so repudiating that none could bear it and down on their knees they dropped anew, hands covering offended ears as eyes wept and throats groaned.

"Monster! Beast! You let them take her! She was alive! Alive!" 

His voice shrilled, hysterical and accusing, distorted with wearing pain and bleak hatred; Elladan could perceive the frantic efforts he made to invoke his vengeance physically by the awful struggle the healers made to hold him fast, to prevent him undoing the hard work just enjoined to haul him back from the door-step of Mandos.

"Nay, Legolas!" Horrified and consumed in remorse, Thranduil denied the charge.

"You let them take my mother and they killed her! They killed her, but not quickly, no." The child had regained his feet somehow and looked tall standing amid the kneeling populace. His arm was raised and his hand accused the King. "They picked at her wounds with their filthy claws and they stripped her of her clothes and cut off her hair. They chased her stumbling about the trees for sport, and when she fell they leaped atop her and rutted in foul and brutish delight. You let them do that to my mother! Fiend! Worse than Orc, foul demon heart! They raped my mother as she lay bleeding to death. And where were you?"

"I could not reach her! I could not!" Ragged and frantic the excuse rang out, but was ignored.

"When they were done and her blood all but spent, they gave her to the Necromancer and he consumed her light…"

"No!" A horrified exclamation arose from the multitude and many rose to their feet and ran from the dell. 

"…drew the spirit out of her and fed his heartless, soul-less void with it, filled his black void with my mother's light and grew strong on it."

The sound that escaped Thranduil's soul was incoherent and agonised, a stricken howl as he fell upon his face and clutched a grassy wad of earth in either fist, groaning and keening.

"When there was nothing left but her body, the orcs hacked it to pieces with her own long knife. Then they handed it over to me red with her blood and sullied with the meat of her organs. They handed that to me, thinking mayhap I would plunge it into my heart, but I killed them with it. It is not now in my hands, or I would kill you with it, too."

Dense stillness settled on every heart at the conclusion of this speech, heightened by the muted and tearful prayers of the stricken people. The gentle, puissant, healing spirit retreated from the glade and left it cold despite the brilliance of the sun streaming down. Elladan found he was on his feet, mouth ajar and eyes staring at the scene as son indicted father and rendered judgement and sentence in the same breath. The stunned paralytic silence gave way under the sound of Thranduil's torment, an unbearable noise as he pleaded brokenly with his son to understand, to listen, to forgive. Legolas had no room in his blasted soul for mercy and repeated his father's doom.

"If I had it still, I would kill you with it." 

"Elladan!" Elrohir raised his voice, more disturbed than ever as his brother failed to heed his voice. He relaxed somewhat as Elladan registered his efforts with a flood of colour that as quickly drained. "Answer, Muindor, for you alarm me. How came you to be barred from Greenwood? It cannot be true that you did some crime against them after saving the child." 

"Aye, you think so, but you cannot know and I would not like to say. I am forbidden because I…I could not leave him there and he would not there stay." Elladan twitched as he mouthed this incoherent half-lie, shooting a quick glance at his brother to see if it would pass. I did not.

Elrohir frowned in irritation. "Nay, Elladan, you must say it all." He again grasped his brother's arm and this time held it. "I am sorry, but you must speak of it. Do not reduce it to mere summation. What is it that you cannot share with me?" Elladan's jaw tightened and he turned his face away, remained silent. "I have forborne to press you until now, but I will hear from you the reason for your misery. Speak, Elladan." Still his brother refused, eyes averted and body rigidly tense, and Elrohir tried another tactic. "It seems to me the rearguard should have been able to catch up to him more quickly. How is it you came upon mother and child first?" 

"They were engaged anew and cut off; it was a slaughter, a holocaust, horrible and hopeless. The Wood Elves had been ambushed or entrapped and were grossly outnumbered, their forces splintered and each clot of warriors surrounded." The account poured out rapidly, frantically, as though Elladan hoped to appease his brother's curiosity and distress by describing the gory battle scenes. "The boy vaulted onto a loose charger running near us and they went racing away. Most of the horses had fallen, dead or dying, and many had taken their riders down to their doom, crushed or pinned, helpless against the onslaught of the orcs. There was no one else who could follow. Frantic yelling came at me now from the warriors to whom I'd tried to bring the child.

"They were hemmed in by their foes yet still fighting desperately to save themselves, to break through and save him, but an expanse of roiling fury separated me from them and they from his disappearing form as the horse bore him away. Archers with no more arrows to fire flung themselves from the limbs, confronting the orcs with knives and daggers, beating at them with their unstrung bows, all struggling hand to hand. One of the warriors shouted at me to go, his roaring voice filled with the arrogance of long command and the anguished terror of a father. 'Get him, Peredhel fool! Bring him back! Save my son!' I spared only a second to stare at his enraged and frightened and pleading eyes, for it stung to be so ill-used as though I had caused this tragedy, and then I did as my own heart bade me do.

"The time seemed so short between the losing and the finding, but it must have been long. Vaguely I recall resistance as I pursued him; I was nicked here and there, but my determination was great and they were in retreat having got not one prize but two. By the time I came upon the captives, all had transpired as I wrote save that I saw them hand him the blade, saw that they had cruelly stabbed him in the shoulder and the thigh to weaken him, saw that they meant to do with him as they had with her." Here Elladan faltered again and lowered his face into his hands, desperate to hold back the agony that threatened his heart. "I do not want to say more."

"Nay, but you must," Elrohir soothed. "Do not confine within your heart alone."

An exhausted sigh heaved at Elladan's chest and his hands fell away listlessly. "You should not make this demand; it is not only my story. He would not want me to tell."

"It is necessary," countered Elrohir. "Adar agrees, and I do not believe the child would wish for you to suffer so for the help you gave him." That made his brother flinch and it stung his heart to see it, but he must know the truth.

"You do not know what you ask," Elladan began speaking again, his voice low and morose. "Yet I wanted to speak to you, Elrohir, and share this with you; this which has become the centre of my existence, both in despair and hope."

"Then do so; I am here, ready to listen!"

The eagerness in his brother's voice did not please Elladan and he felt more certain than ever that there were limits upon what he could reveal. He sighed again and met the shining grey eyes identical to his own, wondering not for the first time how it was that they were such mirrors of one another in all things, for did not the reflection upon the glass reveal the inverse of that which faced it? 

"Elladan, do not drift off again," Elrohir entreated, squeezing his wrist anew. "Speak!" But it was some minutes more before his brother would do so and Elrohir had the impression he was weighing things in his heart carefully. Just when he was prepared to accuse him of seeking a means to circumvent the truth, Elladan resumed his account.

"He accepted the knife calmly, face blank, the shock of what he'd seen too much to encompass, but then as he held it his eyes came alive and he raised it, watched cruor streak its length and drip onto his fist. He turned and looked upon what was left of her, and everything in him broke, Elrohir: mind, heart, and spirit. What he did then… I have never seen anything like it before and hope never to again. The kin-slayers must have been like that: mad, soul-shattered wretches. So much hate, so much pain was pouring from him that my own suddenly seemed superficial and trifling, for at that moment his hatred encompassed everything. Everything. His heart's crushing thoughts were plain: if she must die such a death, then nothing else should persist; all must perish, good and ill alike. Everything must end then and there.

"The menacing pall of Shadow that had nearly stopped my arrival withdrew before the fury of his mindless, ravening rage. The orcs who had been his captors and her murderers were cut down by that silver blade; cut down with terribly efficient skill utilised in utter savagery. Stunned a moment by what I was witnessing, I raised sword at last and helped him finish them. I reached him in time to take the knife even as he thrust it into his stomach. 

"The stab was deep and I wasn't sure if he would survive; plainly he did not want to and even now I am not certain whether I was cruel to stop his hand. I didn't want to fail her, or the distraught elven king, or myself. I wanted him to live. It was a selfish decision, for the brutality he'd endured must mar him, change him, but in that moment I saw him as he was before: young and fair and pure. Such an end ought not come to such as he."

Elladan fell silent and rose from his seat, paced the circumference of the room before stopping by the radiant hearth. He stared into the orange embers and Elrohir watched him, troubled and still ignorant of what had happened in the aftermath of this tragedy. He joined his brother and for a time they merely remained side by side gazing into the decaying fire as he mulled over the narration thus far. Too many gaps remained. What could be so damning that Elladan would hide it even from him? Hidden it he had, carefully and jealously. The word shocked Elrohir even as it gelled in his mind, and he almost turned away from the investigation, fearing what unconscious assessment had produced it, but there were those six months of absence for which he would have an account.  _Six months._  His brother had completely disappeared, physically and from Elrohir's thoughts, their mental link wholly severed for the first time since their conception.

"I searched, Elladan," he softly rebuked, unable to conceal his umbrage, and saw his brother cringe.

"I am sorry for any grief my actions visited upon you or Adar," Elladan hastily apologised and lifted his face to his brother's. "You must understand by that very necessity to which you were forced how serious this is to me."

"I do, but you say nothing!" Elrohir chided. "What of this banishment?"

"Some things do not belong to me alone. I will not speak of those."

"Nothing in which you are involved has ever been kept secret from me before." Elrohir's good heart was bruised; he felt betrayed and abruptly the reason burst upon his mind: Elladan had created a bond with this traumatised woodland child, a bond apart from that which the brothers had shared even in the womb.

"Come, do not take me to task for it," Elladan pleaded, tired and miserable, for he saw that Elrohir now understood the essential truth. This would not end well. "I am sure there are some things you would shield from me, Muindoren." He raised a hand only to have it dashed away.

"You speak as though of minor trivialities whilst you have been missing for half a coronar? For the sake of this child? You made a bond with him to salvage his life. Ah! You cannot deny it! Am I untrustworthy to share your burdens now?"

"Nay, Elrohir, do not be angry," Elladan entreated, but Elrohir turned away and resumed his seat in sullen silence. "You would have done the same," but Elladan was not so sure about that. He had hoped no bitterness would result from their brief estrangement and his sudden decision. How could he explain that it was no burden at all, but the most natural course to take? He stood studying his brother, at a loss as to how to mend things. "I had not time to consider; I had to choose, to act, else Legolas would die."

"Your action was extreme and your decision now cannot be changed."

"It was, but I would have chosen the same no matter the time or place of the choosing." He could see that shocked Elrohir and guilt crept into his heart. "I know you were - are - considering the Gift of Men, but I have never entertained it since the passing of …for a very long time."

"What do you say?" Elrohir rose, livid and trembling, fists curled into hard knots. "Since whose passing?"

"It does not matter, Elrohir. I tried to remain uncommitted for your sake, for fear to influence you against your heart's needs."

"How noble and good!" Elrohir was furious. "How could such deceit be beneficial to me? You would wait until I made up my mind and then reveal that you never considered any but the life of the Eldar? What if I chose otherwise; we would be parted forever!"

"Aye, yet it is not my right to insist you choose against your true wishes for my sake, nor for you to demand such of me, either," Elladan shot back, distressed to have this argument come up now when he needed most for them to be in accord. They were like children again, he mused, Elrohir sulking until he got his way. He frowned; he had grown far removed from such games. "I am sorry to have angered you, but I am not going to speak more, especially when you are in this petulant mood."

"Petulant!" Elrohir jumped from the chair, countenance livid to receive this insult.

"Aye! I have need of the comfort of an understanding heart and yours instead is absorbed in your petty distress and …"

"Petty! I searched for you, wandering this earth from end to end, yet no sign could I discover. You locked me out, sealed your mind and heart away from me! I thought you dead! This you call petty and my just concerns petulance!"

"Well, you are thoroughly riled now, brother, so then I will leave you to it," Elladan sneered and stalked out of the room.

"Are you really going to walk away?" Elrohir followed him to the door, watched as he opened it and went through, pausing long enough to shoot a hurt and accusing glare over his shoulder. Seeing him vanish round a corner was frightening, and Elrohir sped after him, caught him at the top of the stairs, caught him at the arm and held. "You are not leaving the valley, are you? Do not go, Elladan. I am sorry for my harsh reaction." 

The real love and genuine anguish reverberating through those syllables cleared the fury from Elladan's brow and he smiled, clasped the arm that prevented his progress. "Nay, I am not leaving. Let me go off and sulk a time, then we shall talk again. Yet I must ask that you keep this news between us for now. Will you agree to that much for me? I am not ready to discuss this with Adar, or anyone else."

"Indeed, you did not want to discuss it with me," Elrohir rejoined sadly, but he was through with his wrath and wanted peace. "I will do as you ask and hold your secret safe." He gave Elladan's arm another firm squeeze and released him, watching him go, cursing himself for giving way to his anger.  _I was petulant._  He of all people knew this was not the way to breech Elladan's formidable defences. Thinking over their talk, he recalled the allusion to a written account and took himself to the seneschal's office to find it, entering in without knocking.

"What news?" Erestor asked, rising from the desk to come close and embrace Elrohir.

The younger twin returned the clasp with more feeling than he was wont to reveal and failed to suppress a disgruntled sigh. "Nothing. He's alive and well, but as taciturn and stubborn as ever. He'll say nothing about where he was or what he was doing, save to reference that awful event in Greenwood. Where was he after that, Erestor, and why won't he tell me?"

"Elbereth, it is a bad fate he has stumbled into," groused Erestor, not pleased to have his family sucked into Mirkwood's darkness. Yet, he could not deny that Elladan had gone there of his own volition. "Rather, he did not just accidentally encounter it; his noble heart drove him to give aid to those in desperate need. That he should be punished for it is galling."

"It is that which I need to understand," Elrohir met his kinsman's glowering gaze. "I need to read that report, Erestor."

"So be it," Erestor shrugged and moved to a cabinet, rifled among the papers and scrolls, withdrew one and brought it to Elrohir. "You will not find anything extraordinary in it. Elladan was truthful to a fault, as he ever is, and the details are beyond graphic, but there is no explanation of why he defied Thranduil. All of that was to be forgotten, you see, once Celeborn decreed the King should have his child and Thranduil took him away back home."

Elrohir frowned as he accepted the scroll, unconvinced. "There must be something." Erestor was shaking his head, arms folding across his chest, and his attitude annoyed Elrohir immensely. "There must be something everyone has overlooked."

"Read and you will see," advised the councillor quietly. He set a kindly hand on Elrohir's shoulder. "I do not mean to be discouraging, but there is little revealed beyond the bald facts. Admittedly, those are harrowing enough. What more that your brother kept in his heart, only to you is he likely to reveal it, and if not to you then none shall ever know it." 

He led Elrohir to a comfortable chair and sat him down in it, took the one beside it himself and yanked it closer. Whatever was going to happen, he did not want Elrohir to face it alone. They shared a quiet look and then the scroll was spread open across their knees. Elladan's precise hand neatly filled the available space, the tale strangely told in third person as though he'd only watched it transpire, or heard of it second-hand.

 

TBC

* * *

  


  


  
_Oh, Soul, poisoned and tortured and beaten bloody, reeved and riven_   
_from this flesh, my slowly decaying corpse which houses now only this_   
_disconnected and broken mind. Soul-shattered seeing that feels and knows and weeps yet has no voice._   
_Lost, long ago lost, so many Ages full of choice words spoken and meaning taken, meaning less,_   
_and the howling is a silent storm that rages only in my empty breast._   



	4. Chapter 4

# Oh, Sorrow

#### A Legolas/Elladan Story by erobey, unbeta'd

## Completion

"I have been waiting for you a very long time."

"Indeed?" Elladan was startled; he didn't know this ellon. Did he? He scanned the fair features, lithe limbs, golden hair. A sense of familiarity inundated his mind, but he could not call up the memory with his desire rising. Mayhap he'd had him in Lorien.  _I would surely remember that._  No matter, the mystery would resolve itself later. For now he would play along and encourage this quaint seduction. "How long?"

"A little more than two hundred fifty years," laughed Legolas. "Not much according to your lifetime, but it is almost the whole of mine." He peered at Elladan closely; he didn't seem to know him at all and while that was disconcerting in many ways, it also presented the possibility of a clever prank that would definitely avenge the oversight.

"Then, let me cause you no further inconvenience. Come." Elladan held out his hand and instantly long slender fingers blanketed his palm. He closed his around them and drew the ellon to his side; he was even more magnificent in the full light of the blazing fire. Together they exited the Hall, unconscious of the sudden hush that followed them out or by the volley of murmuring voices that arose once they'd gone, all of which normally Elladan liked to acknowledge. Tonight his every nerve was attuned only to his partner and eagerly he guided him through the house toward the back stairs.

He soon found that the connection of their conjoined hands was not enough and before they'd traversed half the corridor, Elladan groped him and kissed him all at once, tongue and hands lewdly exploring. He tasted fully the richness of the willing mouth while one hand burrowed down tight leggings and the other teased sensitive ears. The force of his advance crushed Legolas against a wall and held him there so that all he could do was grab on to Elladan's tunic and cling for dear life. There was much squirming and muffled squealing and at last Elladan broke the kiss to see what his hand had found, grinning and exhaling a loud sigh of appreciation. He stroked the resilient organ and rejoiced in the gasp of delight this raised. 

"Something of beauty," he whispered in hushed and husky fervour, leaning in to steal another kiss.

"Nay, nay, not like this, not here." The gentle reproof was breathless and frantic and more than a little exasperated. ""Tis unseemly."

Elladan looked up from the sensuous lips that had just uttered this chastisement to find imploring eyes trained upon him and immediately dropped his gaze, ashamed, heat and colour flushing his face uncomfortably. Quickly and carefully he removed his hand from the leggings and took an awkward step back, glancing up and down the hallway to be sure none were watching, then found it impossible to meet those sapphire eyes. He stared at the fingers wrapped round his forearm instead and murmured: "Forgive me, I got rather overwhelmed and carried away." The slender digits let go his sleeve and raised his chin; he smiled to find himself the object of compassionate examination.

Legolas came forward into the small space opened between them and filled it, not satisfied with just a kiss, though he took that softly and sweetly, pressing the full length of his body against Elladan, finding he yearned for the sensation of the hard, strong warrior covering him. Elladan's hands came and settled at his waist to hold him with perfect modesty and Legolas shook with the thrill that ran through his bones. "Ai Valar," he whispered, "just get me to a private place."

Elladan was glad to do so, taking him by the hand again and leading him rapidly up the stairs, neither of them speaking a word. Finally they reached his rooms and no sooner had the door latched behind them then he resumed his ravishing attention, this time stripping off his lover's tunic and ripping open the soft silk shirt, tasting and partaking of warm resilient skin and ardent lips that met his with equal abandon. He caressed smooth apricot flesh and thumbed bright scarlet nipples, firm and erect. He felt the power in shoulders and arms trained to wield the bow, dipped his head and nipped at the elegant length of the archer's neck, fondled an ear, all in silence save the struggle to gather sufficient oxygen to fuel his mounting ardor, all while resisting the attempts his partner made to uncover him in turn.

Elladan wanted control and would order things as he desired, taking as given his right to do so, the idea so ingrained it never entered his mind consciously. Later, perhaps, he would permit his lover greater freedom. All the while he pushed and tugged him toward the sofa, toppling him over the upholstered arm rest onto it, and there opened the leggings and freed the lovely organ he'd handled covertly in the hallway. Grinning, he leaned low and lapped daintily at its pinnacle while the nearly naked elf writhed and moaned and sank those elegant fingers into his hair.

"Oh, will you not do more?" he panted in desperation, trying to prod and persuade the mouth to sink lower and devour him, and at once regretted his demands. The attention ceased and he looked to find a most predatory expression evaluating him. His heart gave a stumbling squeeze of misgiving and he made an ineffectual effort to get some distance between them, scooting back on the cushions which in fact only made him more accessible. "Elladan."

"You want more?" Elladan crooned in seductively dangerous tones, straightening as he lifted one of the long, lean legs and pulled of the soft leather boot at the end, sliding silk hose away until the slender foot was exposed. He held it by the ankle a moment and stared, amazed that even this utilitarian aspect of his lover's body was so erotic. He hurriedly uncovered its twin and then parted the legs, coming in between them to grip the red erection. A low cry and a spontaneous thrust of the archer's hips greeted this manoeuvre and he laughed. "You want more." Grasping the stiff organ, he pulled up and with a frantic curse the rump lifted so that his free hand was able to jerk the leggings down enough to bare everything to the knees. He fondled tender balls and squeezed.

"Elladan!"

He let go to untie his leggings and expose his rigid cock, fisting it and pumping it so that clear beads welled at its tip and ran down to be smeared over the velvety flesh. The golden ellon's eyes were locked on it, lips parted and breath suspended. Elladan grunted and thrust into his hand, wanting to shove his penis between those ruby lips, and at once their eyes met. It was impossible to resist the urge overtaking them both and Elladan grabbed Legolas at the hips and deftly flipped him over, almost immediately mounting him, face suddenly astonished and then wickedly jubilant. He lunged into the warm, wet channel, tore through the thin membrane of the hymen, and raised a shout of pain and stunned shock that exhilarated him. 

In and out he rocked, groaning and grunting his pleasure, caring not at all if he was giving the same for it was too good, too exciting to be the first to do this to such an incredibly beautiful ellon. Abruptly he retreated from the narrow opening and realigned himself, thrusting forcefully into the anus this time, and the shriek that arose from his prey turned him wild-hearted and primitive. He redoubled the power of his penetrating force and held the slim form still beneath him, fingers digging in, and watched in fascination as his erection advanced and retreated, spearing him over and over. 

He owned this body struggling to accommodate his invasive copulation, owned this person body and soul, flesh and spirit, blood and bone down to the marrow of him as no other ever would. The realisation was exhilarating beyond any previous experience Elladan had ever known and he couldn't last under such circumstances. He came with a resounding shout of triumph, a shuddering brilliance surrounding him so he didn't even know if the ellon had followed him into ecstasy. When his vision cleared, Elladan laughed in victorious joy and pulled out, turned his love over and kissed him, more hungry than before, gratified and proud to spy a creamy smear coating the flat belly. He lapped it up greedily.

"Now, you are mine," he announced, surveying the dazed face and the dreamy eyes with pleased and possessive happiness. He pulled the sagging leggings off the rest of the way and threw them aside.

"Yours," repeated Legolas, lungs heaving, eyes fixed on the compelling and comely face, so smug and exultant. Yet he smiled, for nothing less had he hoped to see and to see it he had travelled a thousand leagues and more in defiance of his father and the law of his decree. In so doing he was exiled, but so he had been since the day Elladan left him; exiled among his own people beneath the trees of the forest he loved. "Yours, as ever I have been," he murmured.

Warmth filled Elladan's heart to hear this and he gathered Legolas up in his arms, kissed him as lean arms encircled his neck, and made for the bedroom, there tossing him atop the quilts. He stripped without preamble or preening and climbed in beside him, propped himself on an elbow to observe more closely the prize he'd won.

"You have a name, melethron vain (beautiful lover)?" He whispered the query, mesmerised by the light in the vivd blue eyes. Even as he watched, the expression transformed into surprised and anguished disbelief.

"Ai, Elladan, do you really not know me, even now?" Legolas pouted and moved away a little, but the fun of the joke left him as worry entered in. What if he truly did not remember?

"I do … I think," stammered Elladan, deeply chagrined for himself and his mate.  _Mate!_  The term rose up as a truth he could not deny, no more did he wish to, and instantly he was certain. "Ai, Legolas, it is you!"

"Who else?" demanded Legolas, feigning a huff, for now he saw Elladan knew him completely and was relieved. "Ai, Elladan, did you really forget me?"

"Never, never!" insisted Elladan and kissed him hard, cinched steely arms about him and rolled to the side so they lay facing one another, comfortable and content. Then he took his time to survey the changes time had wrought upon his beloved. His fingers touched upon an old scar at the left shoulder, puckered and white. Instantly he searched for its counterpart on the left thigh and found it, the colour still dark maroon as though it had only healed a month ago. "You have grown up. When last I saw you, it was that awful night in Greenwood. You were but a child then, so weary and ill and pale, and I scarcely recognise you now."

"You have not changed in the least," Legolas said softly, stroking the face he remembered in exacting detail and allowing his hand to move where his eyes led it, touching shoulders and mapping the broad chest where dark nipples were hard and tight, drifting lower over firm abdominal muscles where a thin track of fine black hair directed his exploration into the thick mass of damp curls and the impressive organ that had just torn him open and sent him soaring into pleasures heretofore unknown. He watched Elladan as he handled the heavy cock and lightly palmed the silky sac, rolling the testicles within it carefully. Elladan grunted and shifted closer as he began to fill and harden, Legolas' body responding in kind.

"Do you like what you see?" Elladan asked, knowing the answer but wanting to hear it aloud, but nearly at once he didn't care for the friction was sweet. He rocked in time with it and settled his hand over Legolas', training the motion to his preference. "Oh, good, so good."

He rolled to his back and watched Legolas stroke him, encouraging the masturbation with deep moans and long sighs and a sudden twitch of his cock that clearly pleased and surprised his mate. Elladan grinned and sat up, grabbed Legolas and kissed him and pressed him down as he parted the slender legs and took him again. If anything he was more ravening than the first time and yet claimed him slowly, deliberately, emphasising his mastery and documenting the reaction raised by every move he made. 

"Do you like it, Legolas? Is it good for you?" 

He was not displeased to find Legolas could not answer beyond a luxurious moan, lost in the sensations overtaking him. He stayed in the tight warm hole and worked the archer's penis in time with his thrusts, pushing him toward orgasm, eagerly watching as it overtook him suddenly, and then he pitched himself violently into bliss after him. They lay still for some minutes, remaining conjoined, and parted only to settle in one another's arms, content and comfortable. Elladan felt peace gather in his soul and sighed, kissing the source of this healing, then hugged him, then gazed long into the azure eyes.

"I can scarcely believe you are here with me."

"It has been my one goal since that night."

Elladan stared at him in wonder; how had he known then, in the midst of such adversity and suffering, that the bond would hold so true? He had not been as certain. Indeed, he had listened to the counsel of his father, his brother, his grandparents, all of whom had told him to forget Legolas. He had succeeded, in part, devoting himself to the vow and employing it to vent his frustration and rage. But the memories never left, returning in reverie to haunt and torment him, and truly Elladan had come to believe that Legolas was dead and he grieving unto a slow death by fading.

Legolas smiled, seeing this painful quandary flood Elladan's eyes. "You are a conundrum, Elladan o Imladris," he asserted, tracing his fingers across the high forehead and down the smooth cheek to drift amid the ebony locks falling all around them. 

"Me? Nay. I was just thinking that very thing about you." He imitated the caresses, finding he loved the texture of the golden mane and carried the handful he held to his nose, inhaling the faintly smoky remnant of a campfire.

"Well do I know it, but my situation is simplicity itself to comprehend." Legolas watched this small act of devoted exploration and felt a powerful surge of love sweep through him. He shuffled nearer, suddenly as amazed as Elladan that he was here in his arms. He nuzzled against the broad bare chest and sighed as lips compressed against his head.

"Yes? Enlighten me, beloved."

"You came upon me little more than a heartbeat from death and claimed my very soul for your own. It was you or Námo, beloved. I think I made the right decision to cling to the hope of the strong argent light that comprises your feä."

"Ai, Legolas."

"'You must live for me; I cannot bear to lose you to such an end.' To that I have held, believing in my heart that you were waiting for me. Thus you captured me, Elladan, snatching my spirit back from its flight, for I was following her. Yet, she is not in Mandos and my end would have been hers: consumed by Darkness. Had you not bound me to you, I would have truly been lost." He said it quietly and without embellishment, but there was no denying that the words contained the essence of his existence, the definition of his life and fate. 

"I felt it," Elladan conceded with a shiver, recalling the scene vividly. It was this that had united them: both their mothers were taken by Shadow, though for Celebrian there was hope for renewal of her spirit in Aman. For Legolas' mother, no such healing was possible and she was lost forever. He shuddered, thinking anew how near Legolas had come to the same end, and the embrace of the archer's lean arms comforted him. "I know now; I was directed to Greenwood solely for the purpose of saving you and thus myself. I have only been waiting for the passing of the years until you came of age to make your own determination of what your place in the world would be. Ah, such difficult years," he whispered, watching the play of emotions flashing through the blue eyes, changing the intensity of their colour from sunlit summer sky to dark indigo, and knew they had not been as completely without doubts as Legolas might claim.  _And no wonder, since I left him there alone._  "You cannot know how I have worried. I have thought of you every day since then, and ever have you looked as you did then. You were in such pain and I have never been so helpless, so useless!"

"Nay, do not speak of it, beloved," implored Legolas, hands moving to cover the lips that awoke such frightful memories. They kissed again and he snuggled closer, so relieved and glad to be with Elladan, and rested his ear against the broad chest, inhaled deeply the scent of his mate. "Alas, did none of my efforts to send news reach you?" he sighed and lifted his head to see the answer, which was negative. "I thought as much since no word ever came to me from you, either. I am sorry for that."

"It was not your doing or mine," Elladan corrected him, softly stroking the golden hair and running the strands through his fingers. "I see that you are well now and that will have to be enough for me, though to have had a letter written by your hand would have given me both joy and hope."

"Aye, for me also. I had to pretend to forget about you, Elladan. I could not bear the contention between me and Adar. He would not hear your name and forbade any reference to that day. He even refused to speak my mother's name. He still does not."

"Ai, that is a sign of the depth of his sorrow," sighed Elladan, realising now that he had been unfeeling in his judgement of the Sindarin King. How would he manage if Legolas were… Instantly his heart froze and he blocked the thought from resolving, unconsciously grabbing the archer close in a crushing embrace.

"What is it?" Legolas hugged him back, heart pounding in time with the wild beat thundering through Elladan's pulse.

"Nothing, beloved. I think I understand him better now, your father, for I do not think I could survive if…" and he couldn't speak the words.

"You will never face that," Legolas propped himself on an elbow to gaze into the troubled grey eyes, seeing there the half-healed wounds engraved upon Elladan's soul. "We have both lost someone precious and irreplaceable," he said solemnly. "We have been through fire and survived it, the two of us. It is enough sorrow for two lifetimes; now Vairë will be gentle with our weary hearts. We are to know joy, you and I, and I will make you whole again even as you will restore me."

Elladan smiled, believing this utterly since it was the absolute truth for Legolas, and pulled his mate down to him, rolled atop him, sealed their mouths together. He made love to him slowly and carefully, filled with gratitude and wonder, knowing that he was the archer's first and only lover and wanting to give him the fullness of pleasure. Their union was of a nature beyond the physical gratification of his previous encounters, but Elladan was in the habit of taking from his lovers whatever they were willing to give and truly did not comprehend what was happening. Legolas was inclined to deliver over whatever Elladan required, his love and desire knowing no bounds save to heal the broken places his soul touched upon in his mate's fëa. Their joy was supplemented by this exchange of light, Elladan receiving, Legolas giving each time they coupled. The evening grew older and at length Legolas was fatigued beyond exhaustion.

"I am worn out," he admitted sheepishly when questioned. "Ai, and sore! No one mentioned that to me."

"Did they not?" Elladan chuckled and held him close, aglow with light that was not his own before, all trace of the rancour and despondency wrought by his allegiance to the vow expunged. He relished the warmth of the supple body beneath him, the insight that it was Legolas who had healed him filling his heart with jubilance and he kissed his languid lover fiercely. "Oh, what a grace it is to have you here, my own love, here in my bed, in my heart, in my life forevermore!" he declared fervently. There was no response and he realised Legolas was limp in his arms and suddenly drew back, finding him drifting into reverie, for so he deemed it. "Rest, beloved, and I will go forth to retrieve something to soothe your discomfort."

He rose from the bed and covered himself in a long robe, glancing once more at the glorious ellon before leaving the room, as though to reassure himself this was all really happening, smiling in giddy happiness to see his mate lying there spent and resplendently debauched. He was halfway to the main stairway of the house before Legolas' eyes drifted shut and his depleted body dropped into a deathly dormancy. 

On the landing he hesitated. He could certainly go to his father and ask for what he required, but Elladan balked at that, unwilling to endure the reproving grimace Elrond tried but never could completely stifle. His disapprobation was always silent, but it stung nonetheless and Elladan had no desire to suffer it tonight. Instead, he would go out to the House of Healing and procure the salve from the general stores, having no wish to go prowling in the barracks infirmary either. Too many people would be watching for him and for the first time in many long centuries Elladan did not want to share anything about his new lover. 

_That is because he is no mere lover, but my own mate._  

Thinking it made his heart glow with happiness and he smiled, hastening toward the front door so that he might the sooner return to the bonding-bed. Even as his hand lifted to grasp the handle, the door was pushed open from without to reveal Elrohir and Arador on the front stoop, the former tired and aggravated, the latter still angry and still complaining loudly.

"No welcome, is that the hospitality Imladris extends to the Dúnadan? A salute at the borders meant for you and not so much as a brief greeting from your stern and haughty seneschal who…" The man's voice died away as he beheld Elladan standing there when the portal swung wide, and then his brow clouded, taking in the deshabille of the elder twin. He raised a pointing hand accusingly. "I see you have lost no time beginning your revelries." 

"Arador, you might wish to mind that wayward tongue of yours tonight," Elladan warned, though he was too happy to take the man's absurd chiding seriously. He moved to embrace Elrohir only to find his brother gaping at him with mouth ajar. "Elrohir, what ails you?"

"Muindor, what have you done?" Elrohir demanded, seeing plainly the newly made bond in the star-shot grey eyes, his brother's elvish light bursting with vitality. Instantly his mind ran back to the night Elladan admitted he had made his choice to forevermore remain among the First-born and the bond enjoined then; misgivings filled his heart. It could not be. "What have you done?"

"Elrohir, it is the most wondrous thing," Elladan began to divulge the source of his joy but his brother cut him off.

"Who is it?" he demanded sharply, dreading the answer, knowing that Elladan could not have kept such a secret from him, could not have courted a mate and kept it hidden. He ran through the catalogue of every elf his brother had bedded over the long centuries of their vow but none seemed likely candidates for so permanent a union. There was only one person Elladan had ever treasured to that degree. The name was on his lips even as Elladan spoke it.

"Aye, your insight is true; it is Legolas!" Elladan announced with such exuberant delight that his aura expanded in brilliant sparks of golden splendour. He went on without noticing his brother's incredulous displeasure. "He was here waiting for me, Elrohir, and he's in my rooms right now, sleeping like the dead," here he chuckled half in pride, half in self-conscious embarrassment to be boasting, "and I'm off to get something soothing to ease the soreness. He is…"

"The child of the woods?" Elrohir broke in, scarcely able to believe what he was hearing, though it was the answer he'd expected. "Elladan, this is madness! He cannot possibly join in our quest."

"A youth?" Arador exclaimed, shocked on two counts. "Am I to understand you have taken as mate a male and a youth at that?" The scandalised Chieftain was ignored.

"I would not ask him to do so," Elladan countered quietly. "Being my mate doe not mean he must swear the vow that we have sworn."

"Then you mean to break our oath," Elrohir accused. He took a step away and crossed his arms over his heart, the air between them filling with tension.

"I do not mean to do any such thing and I'll ask your apology for suggesting it," Elladan demanded, standing tall and drawing the robe more fully over his body. He waited, but silence reigned.

"You cannot have it both ways," Elrohir finally blurted out contemptuously. "Either he joins us or you remain at his side and abandon our cause. Which is it to be?"

"Neither!" Elladan shouted, confused and upset for he had not had time to think about any of this, too consumed in the joy of the bond. "How can this be your response to the greatest joy my heart has ever known?"

"Ai Elbereth!" Elrohir hissed under his breath, shaking his head in dismay. "It is impossible! He cannot be more than three hundred or so; what can he know of life or love? He will not be able to sustain the bond and then what of your heart? Am I to lose you to Mandos once this woodland prince finds his soul was not quite so tightly knitted to yours after all and deserts you?"

"Daro!" Elladan could barely contain his ire, deeply hurt to hear such disparagement of his beloved. "You will take back those words now if you love me at all," he demanded. "You know nothing of Legolas and your criticism is inexcusable."

"What is inexcusable is your abrogation of our compact," retorted Elrohir, jealous and aggrieved, "and not for the first time, may I add. We were neither to enjoin such a soul-bond while the burden of the vow rests upon us. You have chosen this sylvan prince in favour of your own mother."

"What do you mean? I have done no such thing," Elladan denied this charge angrily, finding it an egregious suggestion. "I need not choose the one over the other, I am glad to say, yet I do not believe Nana would contest my heart's need as you do now. If you must know, it was Legolas who had to make a hard choice and he is here, Elrohir. He has left Greenwood to be here with me, to be my mate."

There was silence again after this, for it was clear Elladan was not to be moved by such arguments and Elrohir knew he was in the wrong to use them. They glared fiercely, identical grimaces of hurt and fury trained upon one another, neither able to back down. Oh, Elrohir regretted it now, but his wounded feelings could not be squelched, and it was too late to take back his bitter words. Into this uneasy quiet Arador imposed himself and succeeded in giving them a means to reconciliation, though it was hardly his intention when he spoke.

"I am glad to hear the elf is not so much a youth after all, though among elf-kind it nearly is so at only three hundred, but a Wood Elf is hardly a worthy match for one descended from the highest among the Three Kindreds. More, it is unseemly to claim a male for a spouse. Bed-sport, aye, Elladan, and surely this is just another dalliance as many you have enjoyed before. Bedding him has done you good, even my feeble human eyes can observe this much, but you need not give over your soul…" 

His ill-chosen words were never finished, for Elrohir suddenly rounded on him and landed a blow upon the offending lips that sent the man to the floor, blood pouring from the torn flesh and the gaping hole left by the tooth that had been knocked loose. He was insensate and the brothers stared at him, Elrohir flexing his fingers to shake off the stinging discomfort accosting his knuckles, Elladan too surprised to do anything. He met his brother's gaze and a shrug answered, for Elrohir was not sorry.

_It is not his place to take you to task, but mine. Besides, I am weary of his carping discontent. I have ridden these many days in his company, night and day, and he well earned that punishment._

_Thank you for taking my part._

_Always, Muindoren._

_Always?_  Relief and gratitude flooded Elladan upon hearing this word, for it could mean only one thing.

"Aye. I made my choice all those years ago as soon as I knew yours was decided. I could not abide ever going to a place where you could never join me."

"And kept silent for all those years while I worried over it in guilt-ridden anxiety. Why?"

"You forced my hand and I resented it," Elrohir could say this much of the truth and knew his brother understood the rest anyway. He sighed heavily. "It will not be easy to share you."

"The bond between us is inviolate as is the vow we have spoken. As always, we will find the best way to continue, and if Legolas must join us, he will do so without question."

"I cannot so easily believe it will mean anything to him to rid Eriador of the evil infecting it when his own world is so tainted."

"Nay, having endured such constant strife he will be more inclined to defeat Shadow's designs wherever he finds them. As he is my mate, he has joined his life to mine and will do as I do." He could see Elrohir was doubtful, but Elladan was certain all this would change once he met Legolas. Glad that the discord between them was lessened, he smiled and pulled his brother into a quick, close embrace. "Say that you are happy for me, Elrohir," he insisted, releasing him. "Even if you do not mean it yet."

"I am," Elrohir produced a kinder smile and set a hand on his brother's shoulder. "May you know joy and peace in this union. I welcome your mate as my brother." He spoke the traditional words drily with only a faint qualm at the bright light that lit up Elladan's eyes to hear them, and wished he could truly mean it. A groan drew their notice to the floor where Arador was struggling to find his legs, tunic red with the bloody flow from his injured mouth. "We'd better carry him along to the House of Healing and see if that tooth can yet be saved."

"Aye, I was heading there anyway," Elladan reached down and pulled the man upright, pleased to feel him flinch. They led him away across the silent grounds and he used the time to explain as much as he knew about Legolas' sudden and unexpected arrival at precisely the time he needed him most. 

 

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

# Oh, Sorrow

#### A Legolas/Elladan Story by erobey, unbeta'd

## Acceptance

Father and son both startled, poised there upon either side of the threshold, surprised by the encounter here, now, and stood dumbly staring into each other's astonished grey eyes, hearts and souls alike awash in similar sensations of formless dread. It would not stay hid but bled from the inner chambers of the heart to be revealed in and recognised by those pairs of discerning eyes. Each became conscious of an eery feeling that the meeting was ill-ordained and wariness clouded features pulled taut under the strain of an indistinct and distant woe. Elrond recovered first, drew a short, sharp breath into his lungs and brought with it disappointment to join his fears, gaze sweeping his son from head to toe and back in blatant disapprobation.

"Elladan! Finally," he barked, scowling. "Thank Elbereth Faelon…" The thought died, snuffed out by the swift out-rush of air as he gasped and stood gaping, lips parted and brows arched high. "Elladan!" he exclaimed, voice shaking, and he reached for his son, broke into a tremendous smile as he laughed and pulled him near in a warm embrace. "Elladan!"

"Adar?" Elladan returned the clasp readily, understanding what it meant, smiling in happiness. "Aye, Ada, it is true," he said quietly and stood back the more to enjoy this rare example of complete approval and unhindered love from his father. They could only share their bright smiles, speechless as Elrond peered in wonder at his child, healed at last and at last at peace, the new bond a brilliant light that revealed his heart plainly, and Elladan suddenly blushed under the intense scrutiny, dropped his gaze. "You must have met him."

"I have," Elrond averred and that was enough to remind him of the dire situation; he sobered at once. "Where have you been?" he demanded, voice pitched low and brimming with reproof anew. He glanced covertly over his shoulder, hand raised to forestall whatever reply his son meant to utter, and quickly shut the door, pushing Elladan down the corridor in front of him. "What were you thinking, ionen?"

"I don't know what you mean," Elladan dissembled, embarrassed to have his father take him to task over his private life thus, thinking Legolas must have sent for aid on his own for the discomfort. It must have been rather disturbing to Legolas for Elrond himself to arrive and tend the minor soreness, and the absurdity of this scenario was not lost on Elladan, though he was too disconcerted by the abrupt change in mood to arrive at a more likely, and more alarming, cause for his father's presence. "I have not been anywhere; that is, I went to the infirmary and have been gone but an hour, no more."

"An hour! You might as well have been gone an Age," Elrond admonished darkly, shaking his head as he tugged Elladan along.

Elladan balked at this handling and refused to budge another step, more than a little disturbed to find Elrond exiting his rooms considering the manner in which he'd left Legolas. The implications presented themselves in all their alarming magnitude and fear gripped him. "What has happened?" Without waiting he made to push past Elrond, but found his arm detained in a crushing grip and he could not proceed.

"Nay, Elladan, you are not going back in there until we speak, but not here in the hall," hissed Elrond. "Keep your voice down; I do not want him troubled by our speech."

"I am not going anywhere," Elladan whispered back harshly, "until I have seen for myself he is all right." Again he made to pull away and again he was detained.

"He is not all right; nothing resembling that commonplace term describes the state in which you left him," Elrond complained and glared, brows drawn down in wrath as he dragged his eldest hastily down the corridor and shoved him rudely into the Twins' library. The large compartment provided both a buffer and a connection between the brothers' separate apartments, a space they used as a study and a private conference room where they planned out the campaigns for the fulfilment of their grim vow of vengeance. Once inside with the door firmly closed, Elrond stood back, hands propped atop his hips, and gave his son another scathing inspection. "You of all people should have known better."

"What do you mean? Speak plainly; what has happened to Legolas?" Anxiety escalated toward panic, though reason assured the Wood Elf had been resting easily when he'd left him.

"You bound your soul to him," Elrond spoke the words in tranquil resignation, recalling the vision and realising this had all been initiated long ago. "That day in Greenwood, you bound your soul to him then," he repeated from the depths of anguished despair, so weary of the ill-fate that dogged his House that he envied Elros keenly in that moment. As he had earlier, he lowered his body to a chair, hands momentarily shielding his eyes from sight, and then peered up into his son's anxious face, a sigh escaping. He could no more avert the coming storm than extinguish the sun. "Had I been there to counsel you, perhaps something could have been done to prevent this, but it is much too late now."

"Too late? Valar, what are you saying?" Elladan grabbed him at the arms and hauled him upright, shook him roughly. "Speak! What has happened here? Ai, Legolas!" He thrust his father back into the seat and rushed for the doorway, calling out in fear and panic, heart racing and mind reeling. "Legolas?" Just as he reached it the barrier swung open to reveal his mate on the opposite side.

"Ai, do not fear, Beloved; I am all right," the Wood Elf spoke, surprised at the commotion, then smiling over the relief on Elladan's face as he was swept into a tight embrace and held close. "All is well now that you are here," he whispered into the ebony hair flowing round his face, returning the embrace with joy.

"Ai, the thoughts in my head just now! I imagined…"

"Nay! Do not voice such things, Elladan, when nothing is wrong. All is well," Legolas interrupted quickly, believing that to announce such fears made them take on the substance of reality.

"Nay, pen neth, you are certainly not well," Elrond cautioned, coming to take Legolas from his son's arms and guide him to a chair. A quick check of the archer's vital signs initiated a satisfied grunt. "Better, but your temperature is still low; do you feel any pain?"

"Aye, Hiren, I ache everywhere as though I've had a fall from the heights of the canopy," complained Legolas and then felt heat suffuse his face, not liking to mention the other sort of discomfort afflicting him.

"That is from the power of Vilya; it will fade in time." Elrond rightly guessed but ignored the unspoken complaint, so to put him at his ease, and offered a kindly smile.

"Vilya? You had to use the ring on Legolas? But what has happened?" Elladan demanded again and joined them, much consoled to see his mate conscious and ambulatory. He sat on the arm of the chair where Legolas reposed, eyes flickering between him and his father. He noted the archer's wet hair and the loose sleeping garb he wore, but mostly detected such a deep sense of exhaustion that it frightened him.

"I am only weary," Legolas tried to calm him, but again Elrond contradicted his good intentions.

"There is no point in pretence, pen neth; he needs to know the truth."

"I am not sure I know it myself," admitted Legolas.

"Speak, Ada," pleaded Elladan. "I swear to you I left him resting quietly and have hardly been gone an hour."

"And again I say to you, ionen, that resting is not the term to use," the noble healer sighed and stood over them, arms folded before his heart as he gave his son another thorough scrutiny. "You must sense it, Elladan. Do you not realise why your soul-weary torment has ended?"

"Yes, it was the sealing of our bond," Elladan said, questioning eyes locked on Legolas as his hands collected the Wood Elf's and carried them to his lips; he kissed them gratefully, fervently. "It was your doing, Melethen, was it not? You said you would heal me with your light."

"Aye," Legolas smiled.

"A noble and honourable task, pen neth, but foolish in the extreme," chided Elrond softly and shook his head at them both. "You have suffered grieving sickness for long years and had nothing to spare, needing every spark of light your soul possesses to simply remain vital."

"Ai! That is a serious assessment, Adar," Elladan clutched the fingers in his grasp tighter and scanned the care-worn visage of his newly bound mate in dismay. "I did not mean you to endanger yourself, Melethen."

"Yes, it is quite serious, though I am much encouraged by the mutual nature of this bond," Elrond continued.

"Of course it is mutual," Elladan rejoined, irritated, and flashed him a belligerent glare. "It has been mutual since that day in Greenwood. Did you imagine I would allow him to give over his heart and soul and not do the same?"

"I was not certain," Elrond admitted, glancing at Legolas to judge how this all might be received. It was unlikely there had been sufficient time for Elladan to divulge his past exploits and numerous partners, even if he so intended.

"You do me an injustice, Adar," Elladan told him, but likewise stole a look into his beloved's confused eyes and sighed. 

"What is the source of this doubt?" Legolas asked, perceiving Elladan's uneasiness and Elrond's uncomfortable air. It had occurred to him often during his growing years that there might be opposition to his joining with Elladan, but the elven Lord's earlier display of angry panic leant a different angle to the notion. Yet, he was as sure of Elladan as he was of himself.

"It is not a doubt any longer." Presenting a somewhat sheepish smile, Elladan raised Legolas and took the chair himself, settling the Wood Elf snugly onto his lap, and attempted a partial explanation. "I have not been… that is to say, there have been others…many others…" and discovered how horrible it was to admit this, especially under the silent scrutiny of his father's disapproving eye. Even as he paused, realisation overtook Legolas, an expression of confused surprise and chagrined sadness, a sudden flush suffusing his cheeks, but after a quiet moment he forced a laugh and hugged Elladan.

"Elbereth, what can it matter now? I didn't suppose you remained celibate all these years," he said, but honestly he hadn't really imagined anything else, his own needs so fully focused on Elladan and only Elladan. Even so, he could not justify feeling angry or disappointed, for the bond between them was but newly enjoined. To be here, to be with him now and forever more was enough. "It was not the same for you as for me; you came to majority nearly an Age before I was even conceived." This truth was not very comforting and could not entirely banish his insecurity. Had not Elrond warned him sternly and attempted to hasten him away from Elladan? Quickly he buried these fears behind a smile so genuine in appearance neither his mate nor his law-father suspected it was utterly false.

"That is a most forgiving attitude and I commend you for it," remarked Elrond, pleased with such a mature reply from so young an ellon. He smiled at the sylvan archer and noted the improvement in his appearance in the few minutes Elladan had returned to him. "I perceive this union is truly ordained by the Valar, for already you are recovering."

"Aye, Hiren, even as I told you: all I need is Elladan." Legolas agreed, eager to convince them, and grinned at his mate's anxious expression. "Do not fret; I will not merely recover, but become stronger than before."

"I had no idea you were going to do this immediately, tonight," Elladan explained, guilty over his failure to comprehend what was happening. He studied the cobalt eyes, distressed by the depth of Legolas' depletion and not fooled at all by the pat reassurances the Wood Elf expressed. "You were not in a fit state to undertake such a burden for my sake," he scolded gently, "though I am grateful and filled with love for your desire to help me."

"I was not consciously emptying my soul, Beloved," Legolas protested, "but I cannot regret it."

"Indeed, it must have been completely spontaneous, else you would not have let yourself go so far," Elrond agreed. "Healing in this manner is quite a rare gift and no doubt no one ever suspected you possessed it. Such things are subtle to detect and require either an early display of it or another trained in the art to perceive it. I suspect," Elrond mused as though thinking to himself, "that you received your education in this technique from my son, who must have given over to you a fair portion of his own light all those years ago. That is what initiated the bond between you and explains a great deal." 

No wonder Elladan had been so needy, so demanding in his appetites; Elrond gave pause to consider the impact this consumption of others' light had produced upon the vale over time, the effect subtle but cumulative.  _For this cause he's had trouble securing a willing partner at times, yet none would venture to speak to me against him._  Elrond wondered at his own blindness and discovered denial was an easy habit to perpetuate in oneself. He considered if there might not be some among his citizens who were in need of care for the loss of light suffered during their affairs with Elladan. One in particular came to mind.

"I did feel potent healing energy in the glen that day," Elladan recalled.

"I have always known it," announced Legolas, nodding to affirm the Elven Lord's words. "Elladan called Tawar (the Spirit of the Forest) to the clearing and commanded it to cure me. I remember hearing your voice clearly."

"Nay, I have no memory of that," Elladan was incredulous. "Truly?"

"Aye, truly." Legolas smiled and kissed him softly, sighing and settling his head atop his mate's shoulder.

"This being the case, you should be able to renew Legolas even as he has done for you, Elladan," Elrond opined, much relieved and rather intrigued by the tale. "I admit to surprise in hearing of this. Even I have not detected so selfless a gift for healing in you, ionen, and instead find you prone more to take than to give."

"Indeed? That is not a very complimentary remark," Elladan frowned, but Legolas was laughing.

"Truth seldom is," he said, "but I prefer the truth. Do not fret; I love you anyway and believe your uncharacteristic generosity is for me alone. You would not give your light to any other."

"Excepting blood kin, he is probably correct. It is against every being's instinct for preservation, even mine, to donate the vital light of one's soul. The energy I use for healing is generally not my own, but derived through Vilya." Elrond amended his earlier statement, finding he regretted the coldness inherent in those words, but his son was not appeased and glowered in gloomy umbrage. The learned healer could not deny the validity of his judgement of Elladan's character, which he knew to be accurate, and a fleeting thought surfaced, hinting that perhaps it was Legolas who had taken too much all those years ago, unbidden and instinctive though his action may have been. He did not harbour this theory long; nothing could be done about it now at any rate.

"Well, I don't know what to say to this," Elladan complained, but Legolas wriggled in his lap and he was reminded what benefits his investment had yielded up. He smiled brightly. "Ai, Elbereth, to have you here!" he whispered, nuzzling the fair golden mane. "To have you here. I never dreamed this could be, or rather, a dream I thought it would ever remain."

"I am here, Beloved, flesh and blood and spirit and mind, all yours for all time," Legolas murmured, "even as you are mine."

"May you find abundant joy in this union," Elrond announced placidly and could not suppress his smile as Legolas shivered out a sigh, face buried against Elladan's neck. "I will leave you and trust to the bond to work its own healing for Legolas as it has you, Elladan. Yet, we need to speak together privately, ionen, about these and other matters. Tomorrow will do, but let us not put it off beyond that. Bring Legolas to my study after the evening meal that I may assure myself of his recovery." 

"Aye, Adar," Elladan answered, already bearing Legolas away back to his rooms.

With that Elrond gave them their privacy, much relieved over Legolas' health, and determined that he could still alter the outcome of the vision if not the vision itself. He would need to convince Elladan to give up the vow and concentrate instead on his new mate, but that was surely not an impossible task. A frown creased his brow.  _Elrohir will oppose it._ He halted mid stride at the top of the landing, having given no thought before to his younger son's response to the new situation. He would not take lightly being supplanted in Elladan's heart by another. He was caught pondering this by his kinsman, Erestor bounding up the stairs toward him.

"Elrond, what is amiss? I have heard the most fantastic tale from Faelon." The seneschal paused on the staircase, spying his cousin deep in thought and at once attributing it to trouble. "Is Elladan all right?"

"Elladan is completely restored to health and vitality. It is his chosen mate whom I was called to attend." Now he waited, expecting an outburst of displeasure verging on disgusted outrage. He was not disappointed.

"Mate? Do not tell me he has united his soul to this Wood Elf; you cannot believe it true."

"There is no purpose in denying what my own eyes have beheld; they are bound soul to soul." Elrond offered a sardonic grin at the inarticulate snort of disdain that issued from his kinsman, complete with that sneering scowl that so intimidated the majority of people with whom the advisor came in contact. "What ails you, Erestor? Can you feel no happiness in your heart? Do you have cause to disparage my son's choice for his mate? If so, pray keep it to yourself unless it is something other than your persistent and unreasonable dislike of the Wood Elves in general and King Thranduil in particular."

"Elrond, there is nothing unreasonable about my assessment of the sylvan elves of Mirkwood," Erestor huffed. "Stubborn, intractable, ignorant, and…"

"Valorous to the point of sacrificing a third of their people for a cause we all thought noble, once." Elrond broke into the blossoming rant.

"I will not argue with you, knowing we can never find common ground on this issue." Erestor sighed, but he could not let it go. "That is Thranduil's child, the one Elladan kidnapped. How can you so willingly accept this union? Elladan will tire of him as quickly as he has every other lover he has taken during his dark times. Then what of the Wood Elf? What of Thranduil and Greenwood? I think we will discover vast, new regions of meaning for the concept of ill-fate."

"Nay, do not speak so, calling doom upon my son!" His words smote Elrond's heart, considering the premonition he'd received, hearing it sealed by his kinsman's impeachment, unfolding and bringing with it the ruin of them all. "Elladan loves him; it is not the same as his previous entanglements, and I accept it because it is complete and cannot be undone without grievous harm to both. In truth, it was enjoined years ago and only lacked the physical consummation to cement the bond for all time."

"I did not mean to anger you," Erestor watched at his cousin closely. "Despite your generous words, this union troubles you."

"I do not deny there may be difficulties for them ahead," he hedged, unwilling to strengthen this fate by speaking of it, "but they are not of the nature you imagine. If Elladan's constancy is all for which we need to worry, I think they could resolve it themselves, for Legolas would easily win Elladan's love utterly had he not done so years ago. I tell you Elladan is utterly besotted with this ellon and Legolas is equally smitten."

"Unlikely. As to Legolas, I know nothing, but I know Elladan better than you suppose and view him free of the distortion to which a doting father's perception is prone. He loves his freedom too well to love anything or anyone more, save his twin and his naneth."

"My opinion of my children is not confused by my love for them," Elrond contradicted this notion as he resumed movement and joined his kinsman on the stairs, both descending with the intent to adjourn to the Lord's study. "I know Elladan's flaws, but in this case the cause of his lechery may be the amount of faer-lim (soul-light) he relinquished long ago to salvage Legolas' life. He has been trying to replenish himself for centuries, successfully if temporarily, at the expense of his numerous partners."

"An interesting theory, for which I assume you have evidence," Erestor was not convinced. "What does the Woodland prince make of this?"

"He has known nothing of Elladan's life and habits; how could he? He accepts that his mate has not been chaste during their separation." Erestor issued another of his expressive snorts and Elrond trained an indulgent smile upon his kinsman. "You have not met Legolas. Once you do, no explanation will be required and you will recognise at once he is the perfect counterpart to our benighted warrior prince. Ah! Benighted no longer, Erestor; Legolas has healed him fully, completely!" 

Erestor favoured him with a sceptical expression, but Elrond found suddenly that he was nearly exuberant, considering the news he was so eager to relate, and with a glad heart ushered his cousin into the deserted study where the long forgotten book still rested upon the seat of his favourite chair by the fireside. He crossed to the cupboard where he kept wine and spirits, pouring out two goblets of a prized ruby vintage, and handed one to his seneschal. 

"We will drink to their health and happiness, Erestor, but mostly we will honour Legolas, who has brought hope back into this house." Before Erestor's dauntingly down-drawn brows proved the antecedent to some acid remark, Elrond raised a hand to silence it. "Hear me first! Elladan has chosen. He remains with us and surely his brother will choose the same rather than abandon him. For this alone I would love the young son of Thranduil, yet there are other qualities worthy of merit within him."

"Indeed?" Erestor's features transformed in surprise, for he had not imagined any of this. "In that case, I am glad for Legolas' inclusion in the family. To Legolas Thranduilion!" he announced solemnly, staggered that he should be pronouncing such a toast, and drank with his kinsman.

***********************************

  
The grey veil descended, heavy, suffocating, divisive and isolating, deadening sounds vital to survival here in the deeps of the forest where the tainted trees were greatest in number and wholesome wood confined to solitary, besieged eyots of green within the wet, grey gloom. Two Wood Elves drenched and dripping clung to the topmost boughs of two of these remnant allies, a narrow inroad of shadow-blighted timber between them. Below, a large party of Orcs milled in muttering complaint, a distinct note of victorious anticipation in their unquiet and unholy speech. They were waiting for their masters, satisfied their prey was well trapped and all but in their hands. They could afford to be patient, though such was unnatural to their crude minds. From time to time one or another would come near and climb half-way up one of the trees to harry the captured elves, hoping to elicit some reaction of fear. They were never successful and this insouciance served only to anger the throng into a momentary frenzy of cursing and roaring of Black Speech and low, animal noises. 

The rain beat down upon the doomed pair, a drowning torrent whose weighty drops fell so fast one upon the other as to be continuous chains, endless lengths of fluid producing a pounding percussion of blurred cacophony, pummelling the foliage and the bark of the beeches in relentless, unceasing clamour. It was Annan Ross, the season of Long Rain in the Woodland Realm, and the lack of sunlight, however muted and diffuse the leafy verdure rendered it during other seasons, made this the preferred season for the Wraiths to go hunting. They hunted souls, spirit-light to nourish their strange existence, poised betwixt decay and vitality.

A single elvish fëa could sustain them long centuries, far beyond the number afforded them when they were merely men. If no sylvan soul could be found, a human's would do, though such rendered up only a few years of life. Of course, the purest and strongest spirits were reserved for the Necromancer, and all his minions knew better than to break this tenet of the Tower. Thus, the Orcs waited under the pouring deluge in anxious excitement, for to them would go the leavings, the physical essence of the First-born which nourished them in a profoundly baser way.

Across the bleak interval of diseased trees, the Wood Elves held one another's eyes, unwilling to look away for surely these were the last moments of life to be savoured, and they would not spend them in dread, terror, and useless regrets. They would spin them out into an eternity of seconds, endless little slices of infinity just for them to share, alone, removed from all they loved and cherished now save the set of eyes peering through the clammy liquid shroud; eyes in which shone the brilliance of the Flame Imperishable, impervious to this monsoon, this death, this utter subversion of all that made them First-born.

No words were required for this communion; no words could ever express its depth of meaning, its range of emotion. Paramount in each heart rang the question, the desperate desire to discover a way to evade this end, a key to unlock them from this fate and set their spirits free before the Necromancer arrived. There had to be a way; it was unthinkable that Eru would permit such an evil perversion of his beloved Children without so much as a glimmer of hope for escape. They need only open their minds and seek; the answer would come.

How they longed for the comfort of touch, the clasp of hands, the embrace of consoling arms! Fingers and all four limbs were fully employed in holding to the spindly, water-logged branches. Any loosening meant a fall into that crowd of grotesque representatives of Melkor's malice. Then this brief stretch of eternal peace would be gone, replaced with tortures too vile to permit into the mind. 

 _Might that be the way?_

 _Perhaps, yet…_

 _Some atrocities cannot be borne and the fëa must disengage from the abused flesh housing it, flee away to Mandos unseen, Free!_

 _Nay, if this fails then only untold suffering is the payment for such folly, and then the rending Darkness of un-being forever, our vital fire stolen to fuel the Enemy._

 _It is a chance, and I will take it whether you will or no._

 _Do not! Do not, I beg! Stay here with me!_

 _I cannot stay, but mayhap my going will give you the chance to flee. If so, take it!_

 _Nay! I cannot leave you here among them!_

 _If an opportunity opens and you refuse to fly, you rob me of victory and I will never forgive you. I will become your nemesis and fill your heart with pain forever._

 _No. You do not mean this._

 _I am going._

 _No!_

There was nothing more to share; eternity shattered as she dived through the branches, surprising the creatures guarding the base of the tree, toppling one, killing it with its own dagger before it could regain composure, before the others were upon her. Loud was their raging fury and brutal the beating they supplied, though she defended herself ably for a few minutes. Even an Elf cannot overcome so many numbers with one long knife, her only comrade already bereft of arrows and too far way to give aid. His screams were piercing and filled with terrified horror at what transpired. He remained frozen in the treetop perch, unable to avert his sight as they stripped her, wounded her, did unspeakable things to her body, all whilst she was still in it. She was still inside, hroa refusing to relinquish its precious animus. And then she lay still finally, though she had cried out only once through it all, a plea to her son to run, a plea he could not obey.

 _Nana!_

Without thought he followed her down, down into that awful place of pain and persecution and debasing debauchery, long knife in hand, death in his heart and revenge his only salvation now. He hit the ground hard and all the air left his lungs; he stared through wide eyes not into a multitude of cruel and leering orcish maws but upon a fair visage, a noble face and calm, compassionate eyes the colour of the rain, long inky tresses hanging down in dripping tendrils about him, the light of his aura bright with flares of red and gold and violet.

 _You!_

  
The warrior, for so he was garbed and the sword in his hand proclaimed, made no answer, merely inspecting him closely, his gaze penetrating and vaguely…hungry.

"I knew you would come," Legolas murmured, uneasy but playing out the scene, for here was his saviour come to rescue him.  _Too late, as always._

"Indeed? Well, truly, it is not surprising to discover me in my own home, but to find you here… That is quite unexpected."

"It is? Your home?" This did not make sense and Legolas struggled to understand. The glorious light of Elladan's faer-lim wavered and changed, sharp spikes of rich silver emanating from his heart, bearing with it the unmistakable heat of lusty attraction.  _Hot with passion yet cold with…hatred? Nay!_  "What is wrong with your light?"

"My light?" A harsh laugh resounded and the image sharpened, changed, lost the blurry veneer of watery haze; the sword vanished, the arm holding it instead crossed over its counterpart before the broad chest. "Nothing is wrong with it. What are you talking about?"

"Valar!" Legolas sat up with a jolt, heart pounding and mind whirling as he gazed at his Beloved, who was not his Beloved at all. A shudder worked through him to see this doppleganger and he gathered the loose robe over him more fully, realising he had been lost in dreams and this person had been ogling his exposed nakedness for Eru alone knew how long. He drew air into his lungs and met those cool, grey eyes so like and so unlike Elladan's. "You are Elrohir." 

"I am," he confirmed, head cocked to one side as he studied the person who had stolen forever his rightful place in Elladan's heart. He could understand the attraction, but not the eternal commitment. He would not mind a romp in the sheets with Legolas himself and a salacious grin spread over his features as he imagined it, eyes passing slowly over the half-clothed figure. The Wood Elf hastily gathered his garment more chastely about him and Elrohir laughed to see a quick flush of colour stain the fair cheeks. "You are Legolas."

"Aye." Legolas decided he did not like being observed in this way, vulnerable beneath that mocking, appraising stare, and stood to gain a more equal footing with his mate's twin. "I thought for a second that you were Elladan," he remarked without thinking.

"Really? I would have thought you could tell us apart, since he is supposedly your mate." Elrohir jeered, pleased with having the advantage and determined to keep it. Legolas responded to his presence and this could be developed into an interesting set of circumstances. It did not escape his notice that Legolas had let him approach unchallenged, permitting him to stand in appreciative contemplation for some minutes. Perhaps he could prove his point to Elladan beyond all doubt. "Where is my brother, by the way?"

"I do not know," Legolas wrapped his arms tight about his body and looked about the space, a small, roof-top terrace Elladan had assured him was private and visited by no one besides himself. It was furnished with several comfortable lounges for relaxing beneath the sun, as he had been doing just moments ago. His eyes drifted up to squint against the brilliant light and the cloudless sky, blue and bright; he suppressed a sigh.  _Even here I am not free._  "I must have slipped into reverie; I was dreaming."

"A pleasant dream, I hope." Elrohir smiled and unfolded his arms, reached the right one forward. The motion made the sylvan shy back as though he expected an attack. "Peace! I am only welcoming you to Imladris, pen neth." He offered his open hand for the traditional clasp between warriors. Hesitantly the Wood Elf took it, another shiver racking his bones as though to touch him was a despicable act. Elrohir frowned, uncertain what this portended.

"I thank you for your welcome," Legolas lied, wishing Elladan would return from wherever he had gone.  _He has left me again. Twice in the course of mere hours!_  That did not bode well for their future as mates and he shuddered as he returned Elrohir's strong swordsman's grip, noting it was the opposite hand to that which Elladan favoured. "Nay, not a pleasant dream at all," he admitted and passed a nervous hand through his tangled hair.

"That is regrettable; someone so fair should be subject only to fair dreams," Elrohir flirted and enjoyed again that faint rise in colour.

"I have not had a fair life," Legolas barked, angry to have this… impostor make light of his history. The other, more obvious cause for this remark he firmly shoved into the background of his thoughts. His mate's brother could not be teasing him for venal purposes; it had to be ignorance and a rather callous heart. He hardened his own against Elrohir.

"So I have been told," Elrohir dipped his head, duly chastened, and silence grew between them, uncomfortable, charged with misunderstanding and a heavy, feral tension. A subtle sound of of faintly clattering dish-ware claimed his notice and that of his uneasy quarry  _law-brother!_. In a heartbeat Legolas was through the door and down the spiral stairs.

"Elladan?" he called as he ran, wary tones underscoring his flustered anxiety. "Where have you been?" he demanded, relieved to see the familiar light of gold, vermilion, and violet surrounding his mate, pulsing with gentle love, but angry to have been subjected twice to such importune meetings with his Beloved's kin.

"I but went to secure something to eat," Elladan reassured, coming to take the Wood Elf in his arms, sensing his tension and immediately feeling guilty for causing it. He buried his nose in the golden mane and breathed in the woodland scent he had so quickly come to associate with both desire and contentment. "I am sorry I…"

"Muindor, here you are," Elrohir leaped from the stairs and met his brother's astonished gaze over Legolas' shoulder, his expression a strange combination of smug delight and dark menace.  _Why should he have you instead of me?_  This thought he shielded from Elladan's mind.

"Elrohir!" Elladan stood back and peered down into Legolas' perturbed face. "No wonder you are displeased; it must have been a shock to see him come through the door. Forgive me?" 

"Aye, though shock is too mild a term to use. I came awake to find him standing over me staring in a most unsettling manner, and I thought at first it was you."

"Ai! You were dreaming again."

"I was."

"Please forgive me; I should not have left you alone."

"Nay, you should not. I need you near me until my light is restored; did not your Adar confirm it?"

"He did; you are right to be angry."

"What is all this about light?" Elrohir interrupted, displeased with the easy way they confided one to another, his presence all but forgotten. Indeed, it was the truth for both startled and turned to him abruptly, sheepish expressions overtaking their faces. Elladan's quickly changed to one of restrained anger.

"Muindor, I will explain later, but if you do not mind we would like a time alone," he announced firmly, eyes overcast with the promise to settle with Elrohir for disturbing his mate so severely. He detected an unmistakable element of arousal from his brother, and if he could sense it so could Legolas. The idea brought a glaring surge of hot jealousy with it.

"Of course," Elrohir smiled, acknowledging Elladan's challenge silently, well pleased with the outcome of his impromptu decision to confront the interloper. "Legolas, it is a pleasure to welcome you to our family, pen neth." He bowed formally and strode past them to the exit, gloating over a third advance of crimson to the Wood Elf's ears.

"Valar!" Legolas exclaimed, disengaging from Elladan and drifting to the table where a tray reposed, the scent of fresh blueberries reminding him of his empty belly. "He is rather disconcerting and does not like me much, I fear." He popped a handful of the fruit into his mouth, eyed his mate and found Elladan troubled and wary.

"I do not think that's the right word, Legolas. My fear is that he finds you just as appealing as I do," Elladan decided it was best to confront the issue head on. He needed to hear Legolas' affirmation that no other could replace him, especially his twin.

"No, he does not like me at all, no matter if he finds me attractive," Legolas insisted, evaluating Elladan's anxious eyes carefully. The comely visage abruptly turned from him in hopes to hide a spreading stain of guilty shame within the grey depths, but Legolas caught it and felt a chill surround his heart. He had expected the heat and anger of jealousy, not the uncomfortable pall of disgrace. "Elladan?"

"He will try to take you from me," Elladan mumbled darkly, "and I will not allow it."

"I should hope not," Legolas snorted, but his bravado was false and the strange mood that enveloped his mate infected him with its weighty gloom. "I am yours; you claimed me from death. Nay, it is more than that, Elladan; you stole me from the Necromancer. There is no other who can hold my heart."

"You don't understand," Elladan faced him, seeing that this was all too true. Legolas was barely past majority. Had he ever experienced the raw need for base, physical release? Elrond had counselled his sons that such was a trait bequeathed through their mortal ancestry, little understood by those of purer bloodlines. Consumed by grief, held to life by Elladan's light, any hungers Legolas might have felt would be bound up in the face and form of his saviour.  _My face and form; Elrohir's face and form._  Desperate to make him understand, fearful to endure the disgust that must accompany such enlightenment, Elladan spoke dire words that fell short of the explanation he would give. "He will not abide this; he will see to it that our bond is broken."

"Impossible!" Legolas was incredulous and stared, hands on hips, as Elladan stalked the room in tense distraction. The expression on his mate's face forced him to consider if such a design was truly unachievable, his obvious dread of it a terrible blow.  _He does not think my commitment is genuine._  Legolas had to sit down. "You doubt me." 

"Nay, I do not," yet even Elladan must acknowledge the half-lie in his voice and grimaced in frustration, shrugging as though some unpleasant substance draped him too closely in its noisome folds. "Yet I am older and know more of such things than you, Legolas."

"Ah, so I am too young; the complaint of my Adar falls from your lips now," he nodded and offered this bitterly acerbic rejoinder. "No, let me tell you what this is about, Elladan: you have been inconstant and it troubles your heart; shame for it fills your eyes." He stood again, pointing in accusation, his tone cold and remorseless.

"Nay, that is not so," Elladan raised his voice accordingly, cheeks flushed dark. "You speak as though I have betrayed our bond and this is not true." 

"Isn't it? You admitted there have been many others."

"And you said I was not to be blamed!" 

"I am not the one raising doubts! I am not the one whose actions have tainted our union!" Both were shouting now.

"We were not mates until last night, Legolas, and so anyone with whom I may have shared my time was not significant…" Elladan's countenance went white upon discovering he could not utter this untruth. He swallowed, seeing Legolas observe this, and turned away abruptly, slashing his hand through the air as though to annihilate the unsavoury thoughts running between them. "That cannot count as infidelity." 

"We have been bound to one another since that day in Greenwood," Angry and hurt, Legolas followed and put himself in the way until he was nose to nose with Elladan, and then suddenly realisation flooded his mind. Stunned, he backed up a pace, lips ajar, shaking his head in denial, and when he spoke again his voice had lost all the force of wrath. "No. Valar. I have been bound to you, but not the other way round. I had nothing to give that would hold you, while readily I absorbed your light and kept it in me. Otherwise…" He shivered.

"Let us not think on that," Elladan pleaded, calmer, and set a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Yes, it was my doing; I claimed you then and have always considered you mine. So much so that I stayed away from Elrohir in order to prevent him knowing. Even then, though you were but a child, because you were but a child, his every thought would be to break the bond we share."

"Why would he do this?" Legolas demanded, but Elladan remained quiet. "All these years, I believed you stayed nearby in hopes to come and free me from Thranduil's authority, to take me away with you home, here."

"That is so, but also I had no wish to share what I found in you with Elrohir. He and I are close, Legolas, in ways you cannot understand."

"Because you are twins?" Something about this was very unsettling and Legolas' heart cramped with uneasy dread. The beliefs that had framed the reality of his life were crumbling into fragments, little more than the frail fantasies of childhood.

"Aye, because we are twins, because we are brothers, because we share more than the usual link between siblings," Elladan explained in miserable despair and chanced a quick scrutiny of Legolas' eyes; they were filling with sorrow.

"More than brothers, more than siblings, identical twins," Legolas droned, trying to reason it out, why all this would cause Elrohir to do him harm. "Together always, sharing everything: thoughts and feelings and…" His heart gave a sudden lurch as the truth leaped into his mind and he exhaled a horrified gasp. "Oh! He is my rival!"

"What say you?" Elladan's face suffused with embarrassed mortification. "He is certainly not!" he denied and turned away.

"Yes, or rather I am now his rival, as he sees it," Legolas nodded as he considered what this meant and a shudder of revulsion ran over his frame. "Elbereth, you have lain with him as you did with me." He felt ill and had to sit down, pushed Elladan away as he came near to aid him. "Nay! Touch me not!" Legolas' heart sank; not only had there been many other lovers in his mate's life, but one tied to him in a bond nearly as strong as theirs, perhaps stronger in some respects.

"Legolas, it is not as you imagine," Elladan explained. "It has not been like that since our Nana… We have not been together like that for long centuries of time."

"You should have explained before…" Legolas could not finish the sentence. Bitter rage ignited and he rose, walked away and back in frustrated misery.

"I never wanted you to learn of it." Elladan watched the fury peeling off the Wood Elf in long simmering tendrils of fiery gold and swallowed. "It is over between us, that aspect of our relationship. He and I have not shared in the ways of mated couples for many centuries." The look Legolas flashed him was filled with incredulous dismay and a hollow laugh accompanied it.

"Does abstinence undo a bond between souls?" Legolas countered sharply. "That is ludicrous." He paced the floor, angry and humiliated. How was he to reconcile this situation? All these long years of waiting and Elladan had been soul-bound centuries before Legolas even knew of his existence. In light of this, their newly forged bond seemed trifling, inconsequential.

"I understand your anger, but I never mean to rejuvenate the physical bond with Elrohir. We share the fraternal bond of brothers now, as we should," Elladan insisted, hearing how insubstantial his words sounded, and sighed sadly. "I had never any desire to hurt you."

"Then you should have spoken of this before I gave myself over to you, body and soul," Legolas snapped.

"Aye."

Legolas peered at Elladan, irritated to see the proud warrior hapless and helpless in the shame of this ugly revelation. He could not but doubt his internal sense of history; perhaps he had really made more of his link to Elladan than truly there was.  _Perhaps Adar was right all along._  If so, he had made an error of terrible proportions that could not now be eradicated this side of the sundering sea. _And I cannot sail, leaving her unavenged._  Such was unacceptable and even now his entire being ached for Elladan, yearning for union.  _But is that solely because I gave over most of my light? I am sure of him, am I not? As sure as I am of my own heart, and that is his alone._  

Yet the memory of Elrohir's flagrant appreciation lingered in his body and a thrill ran over him. Alarmed, Legolas fought the sudden heat and stormed into the bedchamber where the evidence of their consummation scented the air richly. He inhaled it and calmed. Elladan broke from the illicit relations, he reasoned; it was Elrohir of whom he need be wary. He immediately seized upon these thoughts, replacing his fears with anger at Thranduil for keeping them apart so long when clearly Elladan had needed him as much as he had needed Elladan.  _If not more._  He returned his sight to the guilt stricken ellon who had followed him and determined he would fight to keep their bond vital.

"I have known sorrow worse than this, though I never imagined you would cause me so much as a moment of heartache, Elladan," he said quietly, arms locked over his chest, and registered his mate's groan with little sympathy. "Yet I've no right to hold this against you, for it was long before my life began. You are right, of the bond between twins I am wholly ignorant. The deception, though…" he broke off again, pacing to and fro once more, aura crackling with rage. Gradually he reined it in, for he had decided and would not gainsay his chosen course. "Nay, even that I will not hold against you. I forgive your deception."

"You do?" Elladan found this did not stir him to joy as he'd imagined the declaration would, for Legolas' manner was distant and haughty, the acquittal all of words and none of feeling. "I am glad," but he sounded sad and uneasy instead.

"Yes, as am I," Legolas nodded briskly, unable to bring forth a smile, and looked away.

Silence surrounded them, cold and cloying like a winter mist over a stagnant marsh, neither able to move forward to reconciliation.

"Tawar nín beria," muttered the Wood Elf with another deep sigh, dissatisfied with the outcome. What good would it do to repeat his complaints? Had he not decided to forgive?  _Aye, but he has done nothing in the way of reparation._

"I also neglected to mention," Elladan said apologetically, contrite gaze searching his mate's' cold, closed countenance, "we have always shared everything." His eyes grew large at the horrified expression that crossed Legolas' face. "Not lovers!" he blurted hurriedly, "and certainly never my mate, Legolas. Never. I meant these rooms, the apartment and the terrace. You must believe me!" He was on his knees now, terrified that he would lose this pure spirit he had cherished so long and only just claimed for his own.

"Yes, I believe you," Legolas frowned, sighing, and then shrugged, a false gesture of unconcern, devastated but unwilling to relinquish Elladan to his brother uncontested.  _He is mine as much as he is Elrohir's._  They were strong thoughts meant to console him, but failed."We will have to move out of this house."

"What?"

"Move out of this apartment, build our own house. I want some distance between us and him, Elladan. He has free access to this place you said was yours alone." Everything in Elladan's posture revealed Elrohir had never before been barred from his presence. "Sharing this one will not suffice now that I understand Elrohir's claim upon you."

"He does not have a claim on me," Elladan insisted, disconsolate for Legolas still did not understand him. "I have hurt him, Legolas, deeply, precisely because he no longer has a claim. You are living evidence of that truth, and he will try to destroy what I have with you." He paused and searched the ellon's eyes, seeing the confusion there, fear and desire and love all warring within them, and smiled gently, sadly. "We are twins, identical in appearance. You cannot help but be drawn to him as you are to me."

Startled by this insulting indictment of his morals, containing as it did an element of truth Legolas could not yet encompass, he exhaled a sharp breath and stomped from the room. "All this perversion revealed and yet somehow I am the guilty one," he hissed. "What is to be done?" he mourned. "You concede the battle to Elrohir without the least effort to prevail and blame me for the failure." He heard Elladan enter the room but refused to look upon him, running up the stairs to the rooftop terrace. He stood at the very edge of the platform and gazed upon the lovely valley and its elegant city, thinking it was all a cheap façade to hide a variety of corruption more foul because of its purported purity.  _I have come to a dark fate._  Yet such was his lot anyway and at least he was alive, at least he could fulfil the promise he'd made. He would need Elladan to achieve that goal.

"I do not mean to insult you," Elladan offered quietly. "No more do I surrender to him that which I love beyond all comprehension. I meant only to be honest, to reveal the fulness of the life into which I have drawn you. It will not be easy, Legolas. You must trust me; I know that I can make you happy here."

"Happy!" Legolas snorted and turned to him with a sneering scowl. "You truly understand nothing, Elladan. What happiness can there be for me after what I have seen?" He waved away the objections about to be announced and moved beyond the range of reaching arms. "It matters not. I am here; we are mates; all else will follow in its own time."

"What do you mean?" Elladan did not like the darkness underlying this dramatic proclamation and again sought to envelop Legolas in protective arms, regretting he had said anything at all. Again he was shunned.

"Who else knows about this?" Legolas ignored the query and evaded Elladan's grasp, thinking back to Elrond's adverse reaction to his presence, a sour scowl marring his features. If the elven Lord understood and preferred his sons' mutual bond to that of a sylvan spouse, the situation was bizarre indeed, and his standing here quite insubstantial. What else could the great Lord's desperate actions mean? Yet, Elrond had reversed himself quickly.  _Mayhap he is glad of our bond, believing my coming here will restore his children to a more normal interaction._

"No one," sighed Elladan, defeated, and removed himself from Legolas' side to drop heavily into a chair. He covered his shamed face with his hands. "You must swear never to tell of it."

"Of course!" Legolas watched him, displeased with such a weak response. None of this fit his concept of Elladan.  _But what do I know of him beyond the bold, bright spirit light given to me so long ago?_  Nothing, and what he might have become during the long years since their first meeting, lacking so much of his own resources to cope with the violent world in which he was immersed, was on display before him now. How easy it must have been to give in to Elrohir under such conditions, trading the intimacy of the body for vital light. _Light nearly identical to his own._  This at last broke through his angry disappointment, permitting a version of the sordid affair that he could truly forgive. "Ai, Elladan, do not be so distraught," he suddenly announced, moving to envelop the stricken warrior in his arms. "I would never reveal a secret from your heart."

"My thanks," Elladan murmured against the crown of flaxen hair, slipping his hands under the robe to feel the strength and warmth of the Wood Elf's sinewy body, proof that this was all real and he had not yet lost him. "I did not mean to disparage you, truly." Just when he thought the turmoil ending, Legolas pulled away, wrapping the fabric close about him, his face the very picture of miserable vulnerability.

"Words have a power of their own, Elladan. One ought not to say what one does not mean." Legolas stared in disbelief. He would forgive while this arrogant half-elf would pretend the insult was meaningless. How had he come to be so wrong in his thoughts, in his very heart?  _And now it is too late, even as Adaren warned._

"Nay, you are right; that is not what I meant," Elladan babbled, not sure how to fix this. If he tried to make Legolas see it would only anger him more. "Forgive me, Beloved, there is no fault on your part."

"We are mates now," Legolas sighed, unhappy that such joyful words could be so filled with sorrow. "We will have to make the best of things. I am weary, Elladan. Will you call for someone to refresh the bedding? I would sleep."

He did so and cautiously laid down beside his mate, pleased when he was not spurned, and dared to gather Legolas against him. He did not attempt more, though he would mend the rift in passionate release, feeling tell-tale dampness on the cheek resting against his chest. A ragged breath further confirmed the Wood Elf's new grief and Elladan berated himself for being its source. He rubbed soothing caresses against Legolas' back and silently promised never to do anything that would give him cause for tears again.

"Do not leave me this time," Legolas warned, voice flat and bereft of all hope.

"Nay, never," Elladan promised.

***********************************

"A most promising beginning, from the sound of it." Below, in the comfort of the Elven Lord's study, Erestor gave his kinsman a wry grin and raised his glass again. "To Legolas Thranduilion, undoubtedly the perfect counterpart to Elladan, our benighted warrior prince."

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

# Oh, Sorrow

#### A Legolas/Elladan Story by erobey, unbeta'd

## Bargaining

  
"I cannot believe this is your opinion. Why would you oppose our hopes for a family, for children to cherish and nurture. Is this not the natural course for mated couples? Why would we not be suitable parents? I am hurt, Adar." Elladan had less than a guess but more than a glimmer as to the topic Elrond would address at this second meeting, but a prohibition against offspring was a subject he would never have imagined plausible. 

"You misunderstand me," Elrond placated him. "It is not that you are unsuitable to become parents, but your life as it is does not lend itself to bringing up children." It was the lore-master's hope that the prospect of an unexpected pregnancy would help dissuade Elladan from his dangerous work, the vow that held him to it, and the notion of enlisting Legolas to join him.

"Well, yes, I see your point," Elladan scowled and rose from his chair, paced the room and stopped beside his mate, glancing covertly at Legolas to judge how he would take this. The previous day's revelations left the woodland prince withdrawn and listless; Elladan wasn't sure when or if his new mate would permit intimate relations between them. "We have not even had an opportunity to explore the idea ourselves."

"Utterly out of the question," Legolas stood tall, never having taken the seat Elrond offered him, and held himself in rigid and regal defiance, crossed arms a shield before his heart as he stared in chilly indignation at the Elven Lord. His words dispelled the rancour raised by Elladan's rant against Elrond's cautionary counsel and filled the atmosphere with edgy strain. Legolas favoured his mate with a brief, stony glare before resuming his scrutiny of the healer.

"Legolas, pregnancy need not be ruled out entirely," Elrond said, unhappy that his words had brought on this veneer of icy contempt from his law-son and an explosion of wounded outrage from his eldest child. He'd almost refrained from broaching the subject at all given the heated argument the two had enjoined the night before. While the words traded were not loud enough to be overheard specifically, they were amply loud enough to permit everyone in the house knowledge of the new couple's disagreement. Elrond was fairly certain of the topic, though what had triggered Legolas' outrage, considering his previously forgiving attitude, was a mystery. "It is simply a matter of what is healthy for you and any child you might conceive."

"Beloved, what do you mean?" Elladan demanded, his wrath instantly converted to sadness nearly on the level of despair. "Is this due to the things we discussed earlier?" He hardly dared speak the question and blanched at the expression of irritated disdain Legolas trained on him.

"Nay, Elladan. I decided this long ago. There will be no children, Lord Elrond; you need have no worries over my suitability to nurture a child into life. I have been faithfully taking the herbs you mention since reaching maturity," Legolas snapped, furious to have this personal issue delved by the Noldorin patriarch, finding it a grotesque intrusion upon his privacy and his autonomy.

"You decided?" Elladan sounded bereft and lost and reached a tentative hand toward him. "What of my wishes? Should this not be a decision we discuss together?"

"No, for I am the one who must create this potential child," Legolas growled and ignored the reaching arm, presenting a daunting image of resolute intractability. "I am a warrior and I have much to do, an important quest to fulfil. There is no place in my life for the bearing and raising of young."

"I did not mean to infer you are unsuitable to bear life," Elrond objected, but neither were paying attention to him. Elladan peered at the Wood Elf in woebegone misery. As for Legolas, the august healer didn't care for the look of him now; all the joy had gone out of him leaving only this cold and distant woodland prince.

"What quest? What are you talking about? Do you mean the vow I've sworn?"

"I know nothing of any vow you may have sworn," Legolas rejoined, aggravated. "I speak of my own vow and what must be done to free my Nana's soul from that vile Necromancer. He must be brought down and destroyed. I mean to see it done and that tower toppled to rubble and ruin. My people will not abide this evil in our homeland any longer."

That brought the Noldorin lords to speechless disbelief and they both stared at him, wondering how he could state such impossible feats so casually.

"You cannot be serious," Elrond said.

"This is madness," Elladan added.

"Is it?" Legolas barked, furious. Elladan was meant to support and aid him in this quest. "Why so? It is but a structure of brick and stone and mortar; it was built up and it can be brought down. The creature hiding in it can be challenged and defeated. Elves have never failed to defeat the servants of the Enemy when once they determine what must be done. The problem is not insurmountable if only we band together and lay such a siege to that vile fortress that its owner flees in hopes of escaping his doom. But he must not escape."

"Pen neth, you have to know that many have already tried to drive out this entity from your woods," Elrond began calmly, trying hard to refrain from panic, for here was the source of the ill-fate wrapped up in Legolas' bond with Elladan.

"Who has tried, Hiren?" Legolas demanded and moved closer to face the legendary elder directly. "And I prefer to be called by my given name, if you please."

Elrond blinked, eyes growing round as his brows rose high, gazing upon this youth who would take on Dol Guldur and drag Elladan along to partake in the catastrophe. "Of course, Legolas, your pardon," he dipped his head to acknowledge the ellon's right to be treated as an adult, then shook it the next. "Your father tried along with Celeborn and Amroth of Lothlorien, but the siege could not be advanced for the Wraiths exist within the boundary between life and death, possessing neither state fully, and cannot be defeated by violence."

"They command too many Orcs," Elladan appended. "Their numbers cannot be overcome."

"You are wrong," Legolas smiled bitterly, "both of you, all of you. There is a way and I have proved it."

"What way?" demanded Elrond sharply, alarmed.

"What have you done, Legolas?" Elladan was chilled to the soul hearing the darkness in his mate's voice. Clear blue eyes devoid of any feeling regarded him, remorseless, aloof, and so disengaged that he was cast back upon that awful day and the deranged madness that had consumed the stricken child. Then the strange expression vanished, replaced by a smirky grin that was perhaps more unnerving.

"I destroyed a Wraith," he replied with smug and gloating pride as though announcing he had caught a buck on the hunt. Another silence followed his claim and he could tell they did not believe him; so it had been at home. "It is the truth and here is the proof." 

He unwrapped his arms and felt in the pocket of his tunic, withdrawing a small glittering object which he presented on his open palm. It was an ornate golden ring set with a large, black stone, an onyx, and in its very centre a second gem glinted: a small blood red ruby. Legolas smiled in triumph at the gasps of surprise that accompanied his revelation, enjoying the involuntary way the great and noble Peredhil stepped back from him.

"Valar," Elladan whispered, shuddering. "You should not be carrying that vile thing on your person, Legolas. Get rid of it."

"At once, pen neth," advised Elrond, features pale and drawn. "Here, give it to me now and I will have it melted down in the forge. That object is altogether evil; who can say what affect it may have upon you?"

"Aye, so I deem it, too," Legolas agreed even as he disobeyed, "but I knew none would accept my claims without this proof, and so I kept it. Adar refused to believe even after holding the evidence in his own hands and called me a liar to my face, before the full Council of Elders. I merely found it, he said. This is just some bauble such as the dwarven folk made of old. Some trinket dropped from a trade caravan or lost when its owner was felled in battle. So he says, but he knows what it really is, as do the folk of our kingdom. They fear me as though I myself am a Wraith, or about to become one, but it has no power over elf-kind. It was designed for men and for men alone is it enthralling. Indeed, it was made to bind the soul of a King of men, and only such a person will it claim." To demonstrate, Legolas slipped it on his thumb, for the ring was made for larger hands than his, and laughed when both the Lord and his son cried out and again stood back.

"No," Elladan breathed, heart pounding an erratic staccato of sickened dread. He had yet to even think of procuring a bonding band for Legolas, and to see this unclean ornament on his finger was an abomination, as if he had become the mate of one of the Nazgûl. He flushed in anger, grew white with rage. "Take that off at once," he commanded. "You should not have it, much less wear it." He could not endure the image of Legolas enveloped in darkness and snatched at the offended hand. To his dismay, Legolas was too quick and hid the ring behind him.

"Do not fret; it has no power over me," insisted Legolas, no longer finding their distress amusing. "What do you fear?" he asked sharply, the words couched in tones of command that brooked no dissembling.

"I do not …" Elladan's lie faltered on his lips, suddenly compelled to respond immediately and honestly against his better judgement. Beside him he heard his father exhale a startled sound, had an impression of him moving closer, but Legolas held his eyes captive. He swallowed, attempting to hold back the words, but they broke free easily and he heard himself speaking. "That you will be lost to Shadow as once you nearly were. I saved you then, but if you take it on willingly, I do not know how to combat that." 

"So," Legolas nodded sadly; this was as he had suspected all along in his heart of hearts. "Even my mate turns from me in revulsion for the sake of the tortures I have known, none of which were of my choosing to endure." 

"No, that is not so." Elladan insisted, reaching for his mate, but Legolas dodged his grasp.

He turned his back on them both and removed the ring, dropping it back in his pocket as he strode through the open arch onto the terrace. He paused beside the stonework banister and gazed upon the fair land, the landscape coloured in shades of cynical apathy. "What is this place?" he asked, bitter and baffled. "It is a dream, this Imladris, and while I have awakened to a grim reality of violence and death and fates worse than death, I see you still adrift within its seductive and deceiving vistas, illusions of tranquility and peace." He shrugged, an immensely affected gesture incapable of hiding the hurt it was meant to conceal. "Adar said you would reject me; I am displeased that he was correct."

"I am not rejecting you," Elladan insisted, joining him but fearful of touching him, apprehensive of his strange mood.

"Yet you will, for I must do this with or without you, even if I have to proceed alone," Legolas mourned low and despairing.

"You must not attempt this," Elrond broke in before Elladan could answer. "Legolas, Elladan will not abandon you; I implore you to consider the consequences of this fact. I am gifted with foresight, as you may have heard tales told," he went on against his better judgement, for it was a bad idea to give so dismal a vision validity by sharing it.

"So it is said," Legolas gazed at him with interest, observing the reluctance in the harried grey eyes watching him. "You have seen something of my future then," he nodded and sighed in resignation, "and it must be that which caused you to want me gone from here last night."

"Aye, Legolas; forgive me, pen neth, but you must turn from this path upon which you have travelled so far already," Elrond implored him and held forth his hand. "Ruin awaits you; turn away now. Give me that ring."

"What is he talking about?" Elladan took Legolas at the arm and squeezed, yanking hard to make him face him. "Adar tried to make you leave me?"

"I did," the distraught father admitted. "Understand, the vision had me in its grip and I was overwhelmed with the sorrow it showed me. Indeed, I was experiencing that sorrow as though it was already happening. Now I see it was not so far fetched a notion. The ring, Legolas, let me destroy it."

"It does not matter now," Legolas tugged loose of Elladan's grip and walked past Elrond onto the porch, fingered the trailing end of a green vine. "I would never go from you unless you asked it of me, or … but nay; I will never go from you," he faltered, uncomfortably revisited by his first perception of Elrohir, aloof and disdainful and hungry, and shivered.

"No more would I permit you to go," Elladan spoke fervently, "and so you shall put aside this insane quest and stay at my side here in Imladris."

"Is that so?" Legolas grinned, the expression equal parts protest and possessive pride. He crossed his arms before him again and studied the ellon he had taken for his mate, still smiling but gently now, feeling glad to be loved so well as this. Then he leaned near and kissed Elladan softly and was captured by strong arms and pressed close against the masterful physique; he could hear the rapid pounding of Elladan's troubled heart. "Nay, do not fear for me, Beloved," he whispered, nuzzling his mate's cheek tenderly. "You saved me that I might avenge her; it was the will of Eru that brought you to me. We cannot defy this destiny; no more do I wish to. I cannot continue living knowing that despicable thing has grown fat and strong on my mother's light."

"Legolas, you cannot rejuvenate your naneth's spirit even if you could defeat the Necromancer and destroy the Tower," Elrond stated.

"How can you possibly know this?" Legolas snapped and pushed Elladan out of the way to confront the mighty Lord. "You don't; admit it! We call him the Necromancer for that is the naming the humans have given the creature, but we do not know what it is. You, who have never even been to our woods, can know less than we of its nature, whether it is human or some other thing. No more do you comprehend the essence that is an elvish fëa, for such is immutable. It must be so! Are we but starlight clothed in flesh, unfeeling, incoherent energy to be recycled into any vessel that makes bold to capture us? I do not accept that; neither do you. You seek to protect your son, nothing more."

"Legolas, do not be arrogant," Elladan admonished. "Adar has much knowledge of the Shadow and its devises."

"Really?" Legolas spun to face him, his smile mocking and satiric. "I do not see that extensive intelligence being put to use to rid the world of its gravest enemy. Surely he would do so, he and his White Council, if they believed it a worthwhile venture. Nay, they are all satisfied to have the Shadow remain to trouble the Wood Elves alone, sparing those of more genteel lineage from predation too horrible for them to contemplate."

"You don't know what you're saying," Elladan contradicted him. "The White Council does not leave this burden for Mirkwood to shoulder. Such a thought is unworthy and you must retract it at once."

"Must I? I suppose you will wait long to hear that apology, Elladan, even as my people wait for aid from their kin in other realms."

"Legolas, the White Council has not abandoned the folk of the woods," Elrond broke in to the acrimonious rant. "We have determined that our strength is not sufficient and our knowledge too limited. More information is needed before an attack on Dol Guldur can be executed. We need more time."

"More time! For what, Hiren? Explain to me how allowing my enemy to become entrenched, to gather more followers among the humans, to breed legions of our foes is a wise course of action? All the while, the Wood Elves are at war, pressed to defend our lands and lives, every group that ventures from the stronghold armed and prepared for strife even if the goal is but to hunt for food to feed our families."

"Time to learn what this creature is, why it chose Greenwood, what its weaknesses are," Elrond rejoined and knew his words lacked the strength of conviction, for he had disagreed with the decision of the Council and would overthrow the tower. "If we come unprepared to defeat it, we may all be lost."

"Those are not your beliefs or your thoughts," Legolas said quietly and was relieved to see this was true. He breathed a deeper breath and exhaled some of his anger into the balmy air. "My father does not know this, thinking you spurn the woodland folk because of our defeat at the Last Alliance. You must communicate with him, Hiren."

"I have tried," Elrond sighed. "Alas, I don't even know if he read any of the letters sent, for no reply has ever been returned."

"So," Legolas paced away down the porch, fists clenched tight at his sides, anger lighting up his aura anew with vivid sparks of bloody red. "We have a traitor in Greenwood. Such I have guessed, but this is like unto proof for me. Whatever his failings, Thranduil would not ignore a missive from you, even if his answer was hostile and rude. These posts have been intercepted." He strode quickly back to face Elrond. "You must go to Greenwood and take audience with the Wood Elves' King, Hîr Elrond."

"Nay, henen, that I cannot do," Elrond mourned and set a consoling hand on the young warrior's shoulder, watched as the fiery light of hope died away in the sapphire eyes. "I have a burden that must not be removed from this place, lest Shadow learn of it and obtain it. This would be a great defeat for our people, for the Darkness has no mastery over us now, but with that single object would have means to sway us into evil and ruin. I cannot risk it. I dare not."

"Who told you these lies, I wonder," Legolas mused softly and shook his head. "How easily the wise may be fooled!"

"Legolas!" Elladan yelled, mortified and incensed, and snatched at his arm anew. "You will not mock my Adar before my very face!"

"I do not mean to do that, Elladan. Unhand me! Who gives you authority to treat with me thus? Am I some lesser being you may abuse because my opinions annoy you? Is this the reality of our union, that I have become your possession and not your equal?" Legolas countered and shoved Elladan away so hard it raised a surprised little grunt and caused him to stagger to regain balance. His mate's objections thusly condemned, Legolas turned back to Elrond, features animated with eager excitement. If he could convince the mighty Lord, others would follow. "Hiren, that article you do not name went forth into battle with GiIgalad; Sauron himself certainly knew of it and coveted it greatly. For such did he come forth from his impenetrable lair to engage us in open combat, and therefore was defeated. If this can be done to one of the Ainur, so much easier to destroy a mere Wraith attempting to elevate his place among the damned."

"Legolas," Elrond began his rebuttal but found he had no words to counter this logic, for he and Celeborn thought the same. He closed his parted lips and frowned. "Come inside; we should not be speaking so out in the open, even here in fair Imladris." 

So saying he took Legolas by the forearm and drew him back into the study, leading him over to the comfortable chairs gathered before the hearth, Elladan trailing behind, so confused and downcast he had the look of a child under the rebuke of his parents. It was enough to make Elrond wonder how the conversation had turned so completely from his initial goal of counsel for the newly-bound pair. He eyed Legolas with new respect; here was a worthy rhetorician not to be discounted due to lack of years. "Your understanding of these events is admirable and, I admit it with no small shame, surprising. You deem this Necromancer one of the Nazgûl? This is the very idea Celeborn and I have traded with MIthrandir. How came you to such a thought?"

"Ah, my ignorance was assumed, I see; an attribute perennially applied to all of my people," Legolas scoffed, but with better humour and he gracefully accepted the goblet of wine Elrond offered, raising it in quick salute before he sipped. "Wood Elves: less wise, more dangerous." He laughed aloud at the chagrined expression that crossed the mighty lord's face. "Aye, we know all about it, Hiren, so do not be too dismayed. It is true in many ways. We do not have fine homes or great libraries or places of advanced study, nor do we count many among us who devote their lives to the arts. Yet this is not because we do not appreciate these things or find such pursuits unworthy. It is because we are in a constant state of war which only now has escalated to the point that others take note of it.

"For all the Ages of time since the Awakening, the Wood Elves have defied the marring wrought by Melkor and battled his monstrous creations. We learned early that these things do not have the Spark Imperishable by nature, but must steal it from others that do, from us and from men. Ever have the forces of the Fallen Vala preyed upon our people and ever have we repulsed them, at heavy cost. Every loss is recalled with vivid clarity and unending sorrow and ever deepening rage. We fight; we always have and we always will. We are born into it and die whilst engaged in combat; thus has it always been under the eaves of the trees where none but the Wood Elves venture to dwell.

"I know what others say: that we should leave, that we should never have stayed back on the Great Journey, that Oropher was a fool to ever travel to such a place, to mingle Sindarin blood with such a backward people, and since we remained, stubborn in our defiance, our fate is of our own choosing and thus deserved." He saw them drop their heads to avoid his eyes and counted this promising, for if they could regret such ideas perhaps they could also shed them. "Yet where would we go? Here? There is little enough room for those here now. To Lothlorien? The Golden Wood likewise is too small to accommodate even our reduced numbers.

"Shall we invade upon the lands of men and make for ourselves new foes, new enemies among the Second Born? Have they not the right to their own lands as much as we? Must we petition, then, for refuge in Mithlond? It is said my people cannot endure the sound of the sea and must sail upon hearing it. So then, to Aman? Why must we abandon the home made for us by Eru's will and concede defeat to so corrupt a being that his own kind have banished him into the void? Greenwood is ours and we will fight for Tawar until the last of us perishes, but we will never relinquish our homes and lives of our own free will. Such would truly be defeat, for we understand to what obscene use the light of our fëar is put. Do not the wise know this, too? Darkness grows stronger with every elven soul that perishes."

"We suspect something very like," Elrond shifted uncomfortably in his chair and glanced at Elladan. His son was staring at Legolas, entranced but utterly dumbfounded, heart daunted with bewildered sorrow. Clearly, this was not the personality he had expected to wed to his for all time.  _Not a submissive sort, our Legolas._

"Aye, but do nothing about it, for your people live under the protection of the Elven Rings. Aye, we know where they are and who wields them. Aye, we say wields instead of bears, for we know to what use that power is put, and for such cause your realm, the Golden Wood, and the fair shores of Mithlond remain free of harassment from evil."

"Legolas, we did not choose the distribution of the Elven Rings," Elrond began. 

"Who did so, Hiren?" the Wood Elf interrupted. "Iluvatar? The Valar in their protected lands beyond the Sundering Sea? Celebrimbor their maker?" Legolas waved his glass, scowling, to forestall the expected rejoinder and continued. "It does not matter! We have never needed such an article to defend our own and would not have it if offered. Yet aid we do need, now, for we are too few to combat the rising tide of defilement and destruction that engulfs our forest. And this is due not to a lessening of purpose or of courage, but to our diminishment at that ill-fated siege upon the Black Gates and the tower of Barad Dur. 

"We gave up too much; thinking our bold action would inspire others to join us. Sadly, we were left to the only fate such a small and ill-armed force could receive from Sauron: merciless and pitiless annihilation. Our population is now so reduced that we can no longer defend the central and southern reaches of Greenwood. We have been driven back into a small holding behind the Dwarven Road. There are all our people gathered now, the few that remain battling desperately for life itself, for us and for Tawar. It is a lost cause."

So deep was the sorrow in his voice, speaking this, that Elrond and Elladan felt keenly the lancing pain that assailed his heart and dropped gracelessly into their seats, eyes round and faces ashen.

"Lost, unless we can clear that vile demon from our home," Legolas continued, imbuing his speech with unflinching determination and temerity. "It must be done, Hiren, and yet we cannot do it alone." He scooted forward in the chair so to peer deep into the lore-master's troubled grey eyes. "You must come forth from the Hidden Vale and take council with Thranduil, and Celeborn the wise will join us, too. Mayhap Mithrandir will see fit to add his wisdom and I know Aiwendil can be called on at need, for he is our ally. Help is owed to us in remission for our losses before the Black Gates; losses that emboldened Sauron to show himself at last and made possible his defeat. What say you?"

It was quiet for a long time after this impassioned speech, for Elrond would give the matter serious thought before answering, and Elladan would not speak before hearing his father's judgement, though his heart bade him agree to undertake this struggle on his mate's behalf. He alternately watched Elrond and Legolas, the two remaining focused solely on one another, eyes locked in some silent and grim communion of souls, a battle of wills that Elladan little doubted would end in victory for his father. Few could contest against Elrond and prevail. Even so, it was an intense duel and even he could perceive the effort required for Elrond to counter the strong words and compelling tale. At last he moved, sitting back and drawing air into his lungs deeply as he blinked his eyes and then rubbed them, shaking his head as he did so.

"I cannot, much as I would wish it," he said, wondering over the manner in which his will had been so neatly challenged and very nearly overthrown by this young prince of the woods. He looked into the fair face again, troubled in his heart. "Legolas, you have known great hardship and sorrow and I respect the motives that move you so deeply, but this thing you would do is not a thing to be done on a whim. It needs careful thought and planning, and without the sanction of the White Council such an endeavour must fail."

"Yet there has been success already without your help and it was a Wood Elf who succeeded in defeating one of those Shades," he held aloft the ring again, "not the great Lord Elrond. I know more of this than any save my Adar. For all of my life I have fought this spectre and I will have it gone from our world if I am to live on in Middle-earth. We cannot abide here together, the Necromancer and I, for my mother's light sustains it and this I cannot accept."

"Much that you say owns truth," Elrond soothed, for it was easy to see Legolas had inherited that streak of headstrong insubordination common to the kin of Oropher. Only death triumphed in the face of such foolhardy courage as this. "The Necromancer is indeed beyond my complete understanding. He conceals his true nature and even the wise among the wise have failed to perceive him clearly. The more so must you be wary of falling into the trap he sets for you."

"Elbereth!" Elladan exclaimed in horror. "He knows all about you!" Somehow, it had seemed that while Wood Elves in general were the prey of this demon, Legolas was anonymous among this number. 

"Of course he does," Legolas gave him a pained look. "Have I not harried him and his minions these many years since first I took up my bow? Have I not felled one of his Wraiths? Aye, he knows about me and fears me, for I shall be there when he is overthrown."

"This is the lie he uses to lure you near enough to destroy you," Elrond warned. "You must not challenge him, Legolas."

"This I have already done," Legolas revealed and Elladan shouted an ugly curse, leaping to his feet.

"I forbid it!" he yelled. "You will remain here in Imladris at my side. You are my mate, Legolas, and I will have you beside me."

"That goes both ways," Legolas reminded him. "You are my mate also, and I would have you beside me to see this done. Will you abandon our bond, so newly forged?"

"I do not abandon it," Elladan stammered, flustered over this ultimatum, "but no more will I let you go forth to certain death."

"Precisely; there is too much at stake here, Legolas, to reduce this to unrealistic demands," Elrond sought to intercede without effect.

"So little faith you have in me, even after I show proof of my skill and daring."

"If you would prove it then come with me into Eriador; together we can fulfil the vow I swore when Nana departed."

"Nay!" Elrond cried, for this way also led to tragedy, but Legolas quickly struck his bargain. 

"I will go hunting with you for this lesser prey, Elladan, and keep your vow as my own. For ten seasons of summer we will hunt together in the wild lands of men and lesser mortals, but after that I will go back to Greenwood and fulfil my own vow and free my people from the oppression of Dol Guldur. Will you go with me then?"

"I will go," Elladan promised and took Legolas' hand, kissed it solemnly.

"So be it," Legolas smiled as he took the blighted token from his pocket and tossed it lightly up, caught it with a victorious flourish, and slipped it back inside its silken prison. "Now we may move on to less gruesome matters. When will I be presented to your people, Beloved, and what manner of ring would you like? I brought many, antiques forged in the Elder Days long ago and hidden away in my Adar's vaults. From among these priceless relics you may choose." He laughed at the nonplussed expression adorning Elladan's face and leaned forward to hug him playfully.

Elrond groaned in misery and downed the contents of his goblet in a single draught.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

## Infinite Iterations

#### In the Halls of the Elven King,

  
deep beneath the pale, occluded light of the forest pathways, Thranduil paced in slow, brooding steps, a vision of imperious and stately authority crowned this day with fronds of fern and the small, delicately nodding blooms of blood red columbine. Ruby-studded, regal robes draped atop the simple and utilitarian garb of a woodland warrior, his father's long and lethal broadsword belted at his hip, Thranduil paced the polished stone of the dais before his imposing throne of jasper and jade. Silently his boots trod the smooth surface, sturdy boots constructed for long marches under the adverse conditions of endless warfare, much worn though newly made little more than six turns of Ithil hence, not a sound escaping the placement of each heel, each step instinctively light and noiseless, softer than a whisper of wind in the leaves. His hands were clasped behind his back, each gripping the other tight in comfort or in conflict none could say for sure, save two sylvan soldiers trusted to stand personal guard upon their King.

They knew well enough mighty Thranduil despaired only of his own failings and would take no comfort from anyone. The warriors' eyes met in uneasy accord. 

Conflict, then.

Before the doors they stood their watch; doors standing open as custom demanded that any might enter in and beseech the counsel of the King, but in truth none would dare do so uninvited and unescorted by attendants of their own. Thranduil ruled with minimal interaction between him and his subjects, deploying a hand-picked few to administer his decrees and declare his proclamations to the populace at large. It must be a grave affair indeed that brought the humble woodland folk before their Lord, not for fear of his temper, though it was legendary, nor for dread of a capricious or haughty demeanour, which he owned not, but for respect and reverence. Respect earned by virtue of the fortitude, courage, and sacrifice exhibited by him and his kin over centuries of governance; reverence for the indomitable spirit that refused to surrender to darkness, that would not forsake them to a cruel and undeserved fate, not without a fight, not without spilling his own blood if need demanded it, as it had before and would again.

The royal guards watched, knowing what must come and fretting over it, wishing in their hearts a means to alleviate this constant self-abrogation Thranduil inflicted upon his troubled mind and grief-riven soul. Their eyes met anew and shared the same thought: if only Legolas had not left them, if only Thranduil had not driven him away at last. Granted, their conflicted prince's interference was never guaranteed and not universally effective should he deign to intervene, but without him there was no forestalling this period of morbid introspection their King indulged. Thranduil would rehash it all thoroughly, minutely, analysing where he had erred, where he had done right, striving for the words and actions he might summon to mend everything and return to him his loving wife, his obedient son.

"Interfering Peredhel," he mumbled darkly and the hands separated to rejoin in a violent collision before his heart, the clap loud and echoing as palm struck palm and fingers cinched them tight in bruising compression before returning to their customary pose. He paused to exhale a resigned breath, turned about, and retraced the short expanse in the opposite direction.

"Shall I send for Galion, my Lord?" one guard asked, the set and proper inquiry at such times.

Thranduil glanced his way, smiling a sad and vaguely bemused smile. "Nay," he answered on cue, "You know how it will be, and when I am done here you are not to call for my aids or the healers. Go. Let me be mad in peace and solitude. Close the doors."

The order was obeyed and the guards understood they were meant to stand on the outside of them now and did so, dour and worried for ever more frequently did Thranduil venture so deep as this into the past, since his son deserted him and abandoned Greenwood. The King meant to go all the way back to the start of it, then, and nothing they could do could prevent the plunge into despair and fading sickness that accompanied it. Legolas could stop it and no other. Without a word, they agreed and one left at the run to find the King's kinsman and seneschal. Perhaps Galion could summon words to call him back from such a fruitless examination of conscience.

They were wrong, but not very far from truth. Thranduil could no longer bear to go to the place where the tragedy began. If he went there, he must see her, hear her, and bear anew all the agony of her wilful discontent, his stubborn, self-righteous arrogance. That he could not do anymore. He would recede only to the ending now, the place where he'd lost Legolas not to wounds or grieving but to blood-thirsty vengeance, hatred, and a strange, obsessive love that was unnatural and twisted, especially in a child. 

With a deep sigh he sat upon the carven throne wrought of precious stone, crafted for him when he assumed his father's place and the sylvan folk first adorned his brow with an ephemeral crown of wilting blossoms. Before then he'd been simply a warrior; he was one still, a mighty warrior, fearless and proficient in the art of killing, yet despite his strength and in mockery of his courage, he had failed in the most horrible way a father and husband can fail his family. Thranduil's burdened heart skipped the ugly battle scenes and the harrowing accusations and curses rained upon him by his suffering child. He moved to the point he now deemed the last chance he'd had to fix this, and thus represented the moment of his ultimate defeat.

He exhaled as if it were his final breath, a long, rasping, emptying breath, and gripped the arms of the elegant chair, fingers finding and filling grooves they'd worn into the stone, slipping into them with familiar and devastating ease even as his soul shifted and loosened and forced his body into deep reverie, oblivious to all that was happening now, this charade he endured in quiet torment, this farcical existence everyone else called life. His heart slowed, each throbbing pulse farther and farther apart from the one previous to it; his limbs grew cold and stiff, his emerald eyes dilated and then went blind behind long lashed lids that fell shut. In this limbo he waited, neither in darkness nor light, poised upon the threshold of reality where the boundaries between what was and what is dissolve, an eternity passing through his bones in an instant, and then he opened his eyes on the fabled beauty and majesty of Lothlorien, though all its grace was lost on him.

"I will not endure this outrage. Give me my son!" Thranduil bellowed in Celeborn's face, having arisen precipitately from the council table to lean low over his distant kinsman.

The Lord of the Golden Wood lifted a restraining hand, silently commanding forbearance from his loyal March Warden who had taken a quick step closer; Celeborn's eyes fixed upon Greenwood's King the while. "It shall be done, muindor; be at peace," he said calmly, but now a disturbance erupted among his own.

"Nay! He doesn't want to go; shouldn't that factor into your decision?" Elladan was on his feet also, ready to abort this diplomacy and race to secure the refugee in a safer location. "The child asks for asylum; does Celeborn the Wise ignore a request for mercy?"

"There is no decision to discuss! He will be returned to his people where he belongs. How you could ever conceive I would permit this separation is incomprehensible." This acidic remark issued from the King in contemptuous tones. He raised an accusing forefinger and aimed it at Elladan. "You are in the wrong and well do you know it. I am indebted to you for his life, yet you abuse my gratitude by abetting his deranged ranting. He is ill and needs care, yet you drag him on horse through dangerous lands. How is this meet? How is this just? Answer me, peredhel!"

"You talk of justice who would punish him for your own crimes!" Elladan shouted back, ready to engage Thranduil in mortal combat if need demanded it, for he could not relinquish the child and break his trust.

"Crimes? Huan fuiol! He is my son and I would see him healed; is this a crime?"

"Peace!" Celeborn exhorted and stood to bar them both from further strife. He took hold of his kinsman while Haldir came and pulled Elladan away. His grandson called out to him in desperation.

"You weren't there; you didn't see how…"

"Indeed, we needn't have witnessed the tragedy to understand the implications," Galadriel admonished, grim and exasperated to watch this ugly contention. She had never known Elladan to be either irresponsible or irrational, yet his actions held no reason she could find. "He's a child, Elladan, a traumatised child, and you speak of what he wants? Is this sensible?"

"No doubt he wants his mother back, alive and whole, but you cannot grant this anymore than we should condone his wanting to stay with you," Haldir added his own chastisement, not thinking carefully before speaking, and his comment wrought a strangled howl of a gasp from Thranduil. The monarch staggered and Celeborn sat him down in the chair carefully, keeping tight hold upon his shoulder.

"Truly spoken," the Lord of Lorien agreed, eyes on Haldir, "if roughly said. Elladan, he is too young to comprehend what it means to request sanctuary here. He only knows his mother is gone and, unable to cope with his inability to save her, has transferred this fear and guilt to his father. We must not reinforce this erroneous idea. You must let him go."

"Nay, Adardhaer, he feels betrayed and I was there. He knows I understand why he…"

"Curoniel, forgive me," Thranduil moaned, face buried in his hands as he rocked himself upon the seat, unable to master his grief as the images replayed across his memory.

"This is unacceptable, Elladan. What prompts you to add to the burdens of a grieving husband and father? Even a child Legolas' age without such a dire heart-wound is not capable of judging what best suits his future development," Galadriel scolded. She gazed in pity upon Thranduil, but refrained from offering comfort he could not accept.

Still belligerent, Elladan had at least regained control of his temper, seeing the King's real misery. "I would do what is right," he said, "yet it is clear to me this ellon has not the strength to uphold his child, for he cannot defeat his own despair. What of Legolas should he fall to grief and fade?"

"Elladan, that is no justification for your actions," Celeborn said. "Together, father and son may regain some measure of peace, but divided both will be lost. Do you want these lives upon your conscience?"

"Nay, he is too honourable for that." This pronouncement came from Thranduil, recovered from the shock of Haldir's callous reference. He drew a steadying breath and faced the son of Elrond. "I have no wish to condemn you, Elladan of Imladris; you have done a great service to me that I can never remit, yet neither will I relinquish my son into your care. Legolas belongs among his people."

"He does not want to remain with his people anymore because…

"Nevertheless, he belongs with his people, with his father, his family. Each has only the other; would you deny the father the right to raise his own son, his only child?" Celeborn barked, provoked by his grandson's rationalisations.

"…they let her die." 

Elladan finished his sentence and the closing words had a profound impact. A horrific silence dropped upon them with all the subtlety of a landslide. It did not last.

The Elven King lunged for him, propelled by agonised fury released as a sound so venomous, so feral that it was no longer identifiable as elven. His intention of grappling Elladan at the neck and throttling him dead was prevented by the speedy intervention of his aids and the timely efforts of Haldir and Celeborn, who bore the object of his ire forcibly from the room. There was nothing more to say after that, despite Elladan's voluble dissension and Thranduil's shrieks of rage and promises of reprisals of a personal and violent nature. It was some time before he could contain his outrage, but Elladan was far from his reach by then, and he forgot his wrath in worry for his child. When he was calm, Galadriel took him to the talan where Legolas lay resting, drifting in uneasy sleep beset by memories of violence and death.

Thranduil sat beside his son and gently caressed the soft golden hair, overcome with both remorse and relief. Slight and small by nature, Legolas looked vulnerable and helpless, so young and frail; how could he survive such injuries, such torment? It was an extraordinary cure attributed solely to the timely intervention of the peredhel Lord, according to the healers, without whom there would have been nothing to save. Carefully he shifted the blanket to make sure for himself the wounds were neatly bound, though he knew the best of care would be extended and the Lady's potent magic would envelop Legolas in healing light. Even so, the new bandages were spotted crimson, and while the stains were minimal, their presence underscored the seriousness of the trauma, the negative impact the mad journey through the wilds had wrought upon fragile flesh. His heart constricted around the anger this idea aroused, for the way was dangerous for even the heartiest and canniest warriors. That Elladan had dared attempt it was both infuriating and terrifying. 

How easy it had been, how neatly planned and quickly executed. None had thought to question the Noldorin Lord's actions or hinder his progress even when he strode boldly through the stronghold with Legolas cradled in his arms. Why would they? He was the child's saviour. He'd had no need to manufacture reasonable excuses for his actions; his motives were beyond reproach; his honour indisputable, and not a single person confronted him or alerted Thranduil, assuming the monarch must know and approve. With good cause; Thranduil had proclaimed him a citizen of Tawar and a de facto member of the King's family.  _How cleverly he took advantage of my trust and gratitude._  

Rising anger was checked as Legolas stirred, moaned in distress, and mumbled incoherent pleas from the depth of pain-warped dreams, long fingers clutching at the covers and knotting them tight. At once Thranduil murmured soothing words, traced the grooves across his frowning brow, straightened the sheets, unlocking the rigid hand to take it in his, a surge of hope flooding his heart over the strength of his young son's grip. Legolas' eyes opened and fixed upon him, confusion filling the sapphire irises.

"Adar."

"I would take it from you, this sorrow, and add it to my own if only I could. Hear me? I would take this from you if I could," Thranduil whispered, bending low to press his lips against the child's fevered brow.

"But you can't. She was my mother; this nightmare is mine alone." Legolas replied, voice strained and raw from his screaming and crying and cursing. 

Thranduil sat back and peered into a soul so filled with loathing it made him flinch, but he refused to look away for this was what he wanted and needed. For this he revisited this dreadful place.

"Nay, not yours alone. She was mine, also, my beloved soul-mate. What I lost is different, but equally rending to the heart and mind. I have lost her, who was more important to me than all my kingdom and all my wealth. Nothing can fill the emptiness my heart suffers save your love and forgiveness, ionen. Grant me that, Legolas."

"I cannot. You sent her to her death and would not go after her. You chose me over her; I cannot forgive you."

"I did not send her to death; she was taken from me as were you," Thranduil calmly reasoned, again smoothing the sweaty hair away from the pallid and pain-pinched face. "I love you both dearly."

"You chose me over her; how is that love? Do you know what I have seen?"

"I know."

A long silence fell over them and Legolas' eyes fell shut again; dreams invaded his rest again; pain tormented his body again, and Thranduil sat beside him and watched and wept. At length, his tears ended and he drew a deep and ragged breath, wiped his eyes and once more kissed his child's head, and though now he was no longer a child, his wounds still bled and he struggled against the phantoms of his past. The blue eyes that gazed upon Thranduil were distant, disdainful, and burgeoning with disgust.

"I loved her, Legolas; you must believe that."

"And yet you let her die that way. How is that love?"

"I could not protect her," Thranduil choked on the words. "Forgive me, ionen!"

"I cannot," Legolas repeated the same response, "for you chose me over her. You let me live and sent her away to death."

"I had to choose, yet I made her do it for me. Aye, she knew I could not. She knew I would choose her and let you die. She knew that in so doing, I would condemn you both to die. So she chose for me that you might live. I honoured her choice, for I could not bear to loose her and you, also. You are old enough to understand this now."

"I understand." The words were sardonic and mocking, cruel in their cutting contempt. "But you don't."

"Yes, I do. I should have let him stay with you; I see this clearly now."

"Why didn't you, knowing what he meant to me?"

"I was afraid. I feared him; he took you from me. You are all I have left of her; you are my son, whom I love more than my own life. I needed you to need me, not him."

"Then you are a fool, for he was all that stood between me and Darkness. I might have healed with him; instead, I am as mad as you are, and you have lost me anyway."

"Indeed, but you are still alive and so I hope. In time, perhaps you can yet be healed by this love you bear him and he bears you, strange though I deem it to be."

"Perhaps." Legolas shifted in discomfort, trying to find a position that did not cause him such rending misery, failing utterly. "You should have told me this before. It is too late; your fears have triumphed over your purported love."

"No, my fear has been defeated and I will learn to love him for your sake, only come back to me for I need you here. I need you both here, Legolas."

"He will never come here; have you forgotten? You banished him and he left me. He left me and never would you let a day pass without reminding me of that."

"Never did the sun set without you calling me a murderer."

"So we are back to this. Go; I am weary of it all."

"Nay, nay! Only in this place can I reach you; I cannot go, Legolas." 

Yet silence reigned once more and Thranduil cast off his fine robes to lie down upon the pallet beside his son, drawing him close to hold against his heart, and discovered the lithe, wiry warrior had become a babe, still and cold and bloody. He gazed into sightless, hollow eyes that stared back at him across a vast expanse of infinite emptiness, glazed and lifeless eyes of blue. The King recoiled, dropping the infant and leaping from the bedding, a cry on his lips that brought the loyal guards through the doors, and Thranduil looked upon them in confusion that quickly turned to horror. He stood upon the dais before the throne of jasper and jade, the elegant robes in tatters beneath his boots, the crown of fern and columbine a mass of green and red pulp smeared into the fabric, and slowly raised bejewelled hands before him, the digits strong and steady as ever despite the pounding of his pulse. 

"Empty," he whispered and dropped them to hang heavy and useless at his sides. 

For a moment his head bowed low and his proud carriage drooped beneath the burden of sorrow and guilt, but it was not in his nature to surrender to any foe. A decision resolved itself within his mind and he acted upon it at once. Ignoring the warriors' cautious questions, he pushed past them, striding with grim purpose from the regal room, one hand at rest upon the hilt of the sword, the other curled into a defiant fist that moved in concert with his every step.

  
Arador came out of the meeting with his noble benefactors dark and spiteful of mind and mood, pride stung by the brusque censure to which he'd been subjected by both the Lord of the Vale and the dour, fearsome Lord Erestor. Why had he imagined they would listen to his concerns or heed his complaints? It was as Halbarad always cautioned: they were elves and had not the same sense of urgency regarding resurrecting the Kingdom of Arnor. They would back the descendant of Tar Minyatur, but need not choose the current generation as the recipient of their powerful intercession. Elrond could afford to wait until he encountered a personality more in tune with his recollections of Elendil; he had infinite time and to spare. There was no ambiguity regarding his position of simultaneous authority over the deprecated realm and reluctance to intervene in favour of advancing the cause of the present heir of Isildur. How was it put? 

 _'I see no purpose in harassing the scattered people of the countryside, particularly the shire-folk. They do not acknowledge the rights of Arador and his Rangers to rule them. What do these simple people know of the history of these lands? Even if they did, they are not native to the place and hold no allegiance to the Kings of old. This tax, or tribute, or whatever you name it must cease immediately.'_

The Dúnadan snorted in contempt reminiscent of that contained in Lord Erestor's voice as those statements were uttered and his speed increased with his rising outrage. Through the stately mansion he marched, boots pounding the gleaming floors and issuing a loud report with every step, the discordant noise echoing in the vaulted corridor with a satisfyingly ominous staccato. Arador's face remoulded into contours of smirking and petty triumph over the discomfort this would cause for sensitive elvish ears. The expression could not be sustained and melted into a scowl of livid indignation as he realised the residents of the valley would not care about his humiliation, if they knew anything of it, and he was actually announcing to all and sundry that the meeting did not go well. Arador resumed a more sedate pace, eyes darting left and right as he exited the Last Homely House, feeling the need to put some distance between him and the scene of his chastisement.

The stately grounds held no charm and the omnipresent murmur of the ever-flowing falls failed to soothe him. The betrayal was too galling; nothing else could he name it than faithless treachery. His kinsman, the noble and righteous Lord Elrond, Arador's uncle many generations of Men removed, had sided with his elven cousin rather than his mortal nephew. The legendary healer and lore-master had as much as admitted the decision to raise up the kingdom was his to make, not Arador's, and that he was waiting for a 'more exalted humility' to arise before committing any of his resources or his soldiers to re-establishing the reign of the Lords of Adunië. The sceptre of Anuminas was not to be wielded by anyone who would seek to advance himself through 'coercion of the common folk by implicit threats of withdrawing all protection and defence'. Those were Erestor's remarks and he'd found them distressing enough to hear. Elrond's supplementary lecture had proved unbearable and indicative of his complete loss of respect for the man.

 _'The privilege to rule cannot be purchased, whether by blood or coin. Aye, you heard me rightly. To rule a people and a nation is a privilege granted by the will of Eru, earned by the valour of a courageous and compassionate heart, not a right passed on through the loins of your forebears. What flows through your veins is but a remnant of the strength of Numenor, a shadow of my brother's likeness, diminished and diluted by time and turmoil. The temptation to equate personal power and esteem with military might is legendary in the heirs of Elendil. Let not the hubris of Isildur be the legacy to which you cling, Arador.'_

That Elrond and Erestor knew of his efforts to raise funds and conscript an army revealed the Twins' to be nothing more than their father's spies. Why had he thought they would consider him a brother?  _Because I was raised up at their sides to think of them so._  That they did not share this sense of brotherhood and never had was the most mortifying realisation of all, and spurred the man to acrimonious and futile denouncement of their behaviour. 

Arador's jeremiad in defence of his actions was ignored and his complaints regarding Elladan and Elrohir's periodic desertion the mighty Lord would not heed. Indeed, Elrond's cool grey eyes flashed as a stormy sky spiked with lightning when the charges were addressed, and his remonstrance was neither gentle nor vague. He'd stood abruptly, face flushed and brows lowered, announcing the meeting at an end and Arador dismissed until he could achieve an attitude of maturity and gratitude more appropriate in consideration of the years of selfless service the twin Lords of Imladris had already, and continually, devoted to the rugged plains and scattered population of Eriador. He'd swept from the room, a brief glance to Erestor condoning the harsh and lengthy dressing down the man had thereafter been forced to endure from the arrogant seneschal.

The man fumed in silent fury, shamed and diminished by these developments, and paused in his speedy transit of the grounds, finding his wrath had propelled him into the more utilitarian areas of the estate. The subdued susurration of a crowd rapt in restive curiosity alerted him to the contest in progress and Arador could not banish his own interest; his feet carried him near and he shoved through to the second rank of onlookers to discover Elladan and his fair woodland mate engaged in mock combat. The couple sparred with knives, each armed with a pair of silver blades, one long and flexible, the other short and brutal like the fangs of a dire wolf. They moved with a grace that was beautiful and beguiling to behold and he found himself falling prey to a fascination that had proved deadly to many a foe who faced the First-born. Their loveliness was deception incarnate, their harmonious elegance pure artifice; their agile movements an entrancing snare such that the death dispensed by those gifted hands was almost worth the opportunity to observe them in action.

Stripped to the waist and discalced, ebony and golden tresses fanning out, mixing and separating in the fluctuating energy of their exertions, Elladan and Legolas fought, intensely focused one upon the other, oblivious to the watchers while actively courting their notice and attention, every motion flaunting and boasting their mutual good fortune to have won such a mate. They were well matched, complimentary opponents testing and probing one another's limits, sharing a dance of mingled wonder and pride as each discovered and then exhibited the specific techniques and manoeuvres unique to the other. They were learning, seeking for any point of vulnerability not to exploit it to advantage but to eliminate it and thus decrease the probability of injury in battle. They were teaching one another every trick and every tactic known individually, revealing differences in style governed by the separate environments in which each was raised, and there flowed between them a current of reciprocal respect, admiration, and gratitude for this exchange. 

They reached a point of completion when all that had been different and separate suddenly merged, melding into a new form of fighting unlike any other practiced in the world and yet filled with the knowledge and experience of both warriors. It was similar to the eery synchronicity shared between the twin brothers, but exceeded that ingrained mimicry, presenting as unified yet distinct, and through all ran the bold, bright beauty of their eternal bond. The couple ceased combat and saluted one another before casting aside their weapons and colliding in a passionate embrace, mouths sealed and arms locked about one another; the crowd erupted in soft exclamations of approval and applause. All save two.

The Chieftain of the Rangers did not join this collective adulation, a grimace of disdainful scorn returning to mar his comely features. He'd had ample opportunity to observe the couple during the ten day celebration of the unexpected bonding and a powerful surge of resentment had welled up beneath his heart during the initial presentation of the Wood Elf prince. He was exquisite to regard, none could deny it, and not in the least the personification of savagery the man had expected in a sylvan elf. That night he'd seemed aloof and reserved, less an exuberant new husband than a grudging comrade, distrustful of the people with whom he discovered himself to be associated. Distrustful and rather disdainful, a cold, haughty, and arrogant air about him that did not endear him to the welcoming lords and ladies of the land. After the initial introduction, Legolas had warmed to his new countrymen somewhat and they in turn had begun to truly accept him. Now, here in the training arena he exhibited his real nature and found an answering chord of dedication and approval from the warriors; they were instantly brothers, one and all.

So much excitement and regard for an outsider rankled. Never had Arador experienced this level of affirmation in Imladris, though he shared the very blood of the Lord of the lands. Watching the crowd's reaction, he did not doubt that their respect was genuine. For this insignificant woodland archer the rank and file of the Noldorin soldiers would exert their utmost effort and declare their staunchest loyalty, yet for him, for his people they would do nothing unless so ordered. What was it that engendered such admiration? Arador could not see it. Granted, Legolas was fair, an alluring bit of physical diversion for which Elladan had departed Eriador, and who could blame him, yet to bond with him? 

Aye, Arador conceded, if the Rangers of Eriador had a safe haven in which to repair, and if he could coax such a beauty to notice him, he would do the same. So many ifs that never became certainties. It was not a point that quieted his discordant reaction to the sylvan, but a reminder of all that was lacking in the man's life. Always it was like this: the elves, beloved and favoured First-born of Eru, were afforded the best of all the gifts Iluvatar deigned to bestow upon his children, leaving little left for the men who struggled behind and beneath them.  _Here is the raw truth before my very eyes; even a common Wood Elf is above a man, even a man of the noblest blood._ The realisation was hard to bear for heir of Tar Minyatur, and Arador could not stomach it or its living representation.

Resentment and envy bloomed in his heart, bitter strains of discontent coursing through his veins as the newly bound pair indulged the heat generated by their bout in the arena. They parted smiling and left arm in arm, heads bent close together as they spoke words too intimate to allow public disclosure. The crowd parted for them, many a kind hand resting in fleeting approbation on Elladan's shoulder as they passed, though none dared touch the Wood Elf.  _Oh no, none would dare invite the elder twin's wrath by hinting at the interest Legolas inspires._  

Yet none could hide it nor even wished to do so. It was a tribute in its own right, both to Elladan for having secured such a mate and to Legolas for simply being. That he was so skilled a warrior was an attribute worthy of respect and despite initial reservations due to his heritage, the soldiers were pleased Elladan's choice would be an asset to Imladris. On another level entirely, most judged Legolas' character must be strong indeed to have tamed the mercurial Orc-slayer in a single night. The bond and its healing power had become the talk of the barracks. Nay, it was no sin to admit the lusty desire Legolas generated around him as long as it was never openly demonstrated, but all of this was hidden from the man.

"Why such a sour face, mellon?" Elrohir's mocking query was softly voiced for Arador alone and the man met his sardonic gaze with a flustered and guilty start. "And such raw nerves today!" Elrohir circled the man slowly and grinned in malicious glee. "You have watched my brother spar many times before without showing so much discomfort; therefore, it must be my new law-brother who inspires this mood, no?"

"I assure you, whatever my thoughts on this match may be, I will not express them aloud to Elladan or his mate. Your initial rebuke was sufficient, Elrohir; you need not follow me about." Arador rubbed his chin in memory of the blow received for his irreverent remarks. Elrohir laughed to see it

"Be at peace! I will not accost you again. I've Elladan's interests ever foremost in my heart and mind, and this Wood Elf is not the one for him. I am grateful for the healing Legolas has rendered, of course, and this explains his hold on Elladan, but the match, as you term it, may not be so permanent as many think."

"Truly?" Arador stared at Elrohir, distrusting his strange demeanour. "What can you mean?"

"My father has received a vision, troubling and dark, concerning the inclusion of Legolas in our lives."

"Yet Lord Elrond welcomes him and sanctions their union," Arador rejoined, wondering what Elrohir meant by telling him this news. "Surely, if Elladan's heart is bound, any harm to Legolas must injure him also. I cannot believe you would wish any harm to befall the Wood Elf."

"Have I said anything so dire?" Elrohir smiled indulgently and set an ominously weighty hand on his kinsman's shoulder. "Nay, my brother's heart is not bound to this sylvan prince, though the attraction is strong between them. It will run its course and what then? Better for Elladan to realise the truth before this doom befalls us all, and then Legolas will be sent away back to his gloomy woods and his mad father."

"I do not understand, ELrohir; what truth must Elladan comprehend?"

"That Legolas does not love him any more than he loves Legolas. They delude themselves, alas, and if they continue in this denial then this horrendous fate must come to pass. I will not risk my brother's future nor endanger my family for the sake of one woodland archer, no matter how tragic his past or deserving his spirit," Elrohir squeezed the man's shoulder as he spoke, the intensity of his piercing gaze almost more than Arador could endure, and so he broke away, strolling from the arena. Arador followed.

"I find your ideas troubling, Elrohir," the Chieftain said. "What is it the fate Legolas calls down upon the House of Eärendil?"

"He means to take on Dol Guldur and for Elladan to help him," Elrohir announced, nodding at the expression of disbelieving shock that overtook the man's visage. "Aye, you see it as I do: folly and ruin combined. The young prince is as deranged as his Adar. No doubt Thranduil sent him here to prostitute himself for the help of Imladris, knowing Elrond would never agree to risk a single warrior in battle beneath those blighted trees. I will not allow my brother to fall for so ridiculous a cause. As our kinsman, I charge you to remember your oath of fealty, Arador, and…"

"Daro!" Arador snapped, striding to face Elrohir in angry affront. "That is unworthy of you and me and you will not say those words in my hearing! Have I ever needed such a reminder? Have I ever failed to honour your father's decisions? Yeah, even now when he tells me bluntly he will not aid my cause to raise up Arnor to the glory that is my just due, still I will not oppose his will." 

"Then, you are a fool and unworthy of that place of power and prestige you so dearly covet," Elrohir sneered, his gaze a scathing rebuke in itself.

"You test me to my limits, ELrohir," Arador ground out between his teeth, fighting to retain control of his anger for there must be a purpose in all this pageantry and he would know it. "What do you want?"

"I want to ensure Elladan never returns to Greenwood with Legolas. Bound as they are, I see only one means to prevent this: break the bond."

"You have said the bond is false and will run its course."

"So it will, but I will not leave my brother's fate to such an uncertain hope, for who can say how long that may take or how soon this call to return to Greenwood may come? The threat must be vanquished before it materialises."

"What do you want?"

"I want Legolas," Elrohir said, "and I want Elladan to be there when I have him. I want him to see Legolas submit to me willingly and with great delight. Only this will open his eyes."

Arador was stunned, for this was not what he'd expected to hear, and still the cause for Elrohir to impart such information to him was unclear. "I do not believe I can assist you to realise this bizarre adultery, nor why I would wish to."

"You want him, too."

"Nay, I do not!"

"No? Well, you do want to discard the homely title of Chieftain and wield the sceptre of the King, do you not?"

"Yes, but destroying the bond between your brother and the Wood Elf can hardly accomplish that."

"Then not only are you a fool, but you lack insight as well," Elrohir exclaimed in exasperation, shaking his head. "Elladan and I can make your wish a reality, Arador, whether my father wills it or no. Once you have united the people or Eriador and driven the vermin from the realm of Arnor, Elrond will not oppose you. He will acknowledge the King and the sceptre will be yours, supported by a most powerful ally."

"Elrond will never commit his soldiers to my cause; he has told me this in plain words," Arador retorted, angry that Elrohir made him admit this loss of confidence in his character a second time.

"My brother and I are Lords in our own rights and command sufficient troops to undertake this quest. Indeed, even Legolas has promised my brother to take our vow as his own. We will raise an army for you, Arador, and drive the Orcs from your lands. The people will band together beneath your banner and the days of the Dunedain will flower anew. The population will flourish and grow robust, increasing in numbers and vigour under your rule. Prosperity will be yours and the span of your years twice over that of your father, nay, threefold! And riches, Arador, beyond your dreams shall fill the vaults of Anuminas to overflowing." Elrohir spun out this vision with shining eyes, watching as an avaricious gleam lit the man's soul. Arador was as easy to manipulate as the greediest commoner alive and the younger of Elrond's sons felt nothing but contempt for the man.

"From whence will this wealth arise? There is nothing left in Eriador but simple folk of humble means. It will be long years before the lands become abundant enough to engage in trade with Gondor or even Rohan." Arador complained, eager for Elrohir to expound on this point.

"I know a kingdom where great wealth lies in stagnant piles like the treasure horde of a dragon," he answered. "A trove of plunder legendary in immensity guarded by an ailing and heart-broken wreck who cannot protect his own people; nay, not even his wife and child."

"You speak of Thranduil?" Arador scoffed and shook his head in disbelief. "To think I was beginning to heed your mad scheme! Elrohir, he has no reason to come to my aid and every reason to desire only my destruction and that of all my kin. He blames your father and my forefather for his father's death."

"Legolas will see to it; he has no love for Thranduil. From what I understand, he means to defeat Dol Guldur and unseat his adar, taking over governance of Mirkwood himself. For this he needs Elladan and Imladris behind him. We will enter into a diplomacy with him and form an alliance: his riches to build up an army suitable to cleanse Eriador and re-establish Arnor. In return, we will promise that same army in his quest to free his people from the tyranny of the Necromancer and the madness of Thranduil. He will not refuse such a compact."

Now Arador was disposed to endorse this plot, desiring the outcome Elrohir described, but unwilling to cast his lot with the Wood Elf unless he could have some proofs of his efficacy. Another obstacle presented itself and he expressed hsi doubts. "How will we ensure Legolas' trust? He may be estranged from his people, but that does not mean he would support the heir of Isildur."

"You underestimate my determination," Elrohir assured, "and his naiveté. Leave Legolas to me."

"I am willing enough to do so, for I dislike the notion of angering Elladan by accosting his mate," Arador admitted frankly, eyeing Elrohir curiously. "And once my kingdom is won, then you will reveal to your own brother the inconstant heart to which he is pledged? I would not have imagined you would choose to give him such a soul-wound."

"I deliver a blow, aye, but not a mortal one; a wound, but to his pride only, Arador. I will not lose Elladan to Mandos."  _Nor to this Wood Elf._

"I must trust you to understand this better than I," Arador shrugged, still suspicious, "and still I do not understand my part in it all. Why tell me this sordid plan of yours?"

"How is it sordid to want to protect my brother?" Elrohir bristled.

"There are surely less intimate ways to do that," the man laughed uneasily. "Why include me in your confidence?"

"Why, to ensure Elladan sees what he needs to see, of course, for you are wrong; there is no other way. Elladan will not believe any accusation made against Legolas without proof. You will make sure he is in the right place at the right time to require no further proofs. You are the one who must awaken in him the doubt; you are the one who will point out to him certain signs and indications that will arise as I do my work; and you are the one who will reveal the place and time of his mate's tryst with me. Why you? Because he will trust you; there is no reason for you to invent such things. Agree to my terms and Anuminas will rise from its ruination, elevating you to greater glory than any King before you."

It was a tempting offer and Arador was disposed to accept. How else would he gain sufficient might to ensure the cleansing of Eriador and the defeat of his foes? With the sons of Elrond behind him and Imladris as his ally, not even Gondor could oppose his rule. Arador could already see himself in the White City, the ancient Kingdom reunited, the crowds cheering, his reign undisputed, and the princes of lesser realms his vassals. He smiled, for this was his just due and the promise inherent in his lineage; it was right and good. What was Elladan's bruised ego in comparison? One discordant note sounded through his pleasing daydream and his face clouded. "What of the Wood Elf when your brother casts him off?"

"He will go home," Elrohir shrugged, unconcerned, "wiser and humbler in spirit, duly chastened for attempting to align himself with the noble House of Eärendil, so far above his station." The man still looked troubled and Elrohir laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Are you so sure you do not want him? Your anxiety over Legolas' feelings is compassionate, indeed!"

"Nay! Do not jest about that, Elrohir, for I am no match for your brother and he will challenge me if such a rumour starts!"

"Exactly so, which is why only I can do this thing. He will not challenge me. But do not be troubled overly much for the 'sordid' nature of the venture. I tell you there is no love and the bond is false, though each believes otherwise. There is already discord between them; they argued on their bonding night. It will benefit everyone to have this error corrected, for the doom of Adar's vision is not to be discounted, and they will both recover to seek a true and eternal soul-mate."

"So be it," Arador offered his hand in pledge and Elrohir took it. "I will do as you instruct provided the sceptre of Anuminas is mine to wield."

TBC.


	8. Breakthrough of a Broken Dream

Sorrow Full of Rage

#  Oh, Sorrow

#### A Legolas/Elladan Story by erobey, unbeta'd

## Breakthrough of a Broken Dream

He had been in a fire once, when he was a child; a conflagration in which countless of his people were burned as they ran, burned alive, writhing, screaming wads of radiant flames darting, leaping, bolting, staggering down into quiet clots of stinking red fury that went quickly cold and black. It was as if they froze suddenly when their light was all consumed and what remained was a shapeless mass of charred bone and hardened ash. Unrecognisable, thankfully, and yet that was somehow more terrifying to see. This had been a person, this lump of rubbish, this waste, this nothing, fodder for the forest now. He puPpshed his toe into one. It exploded silently and softly into a cloud of misty particles that hung in the air so that he couldn't help but breathe them in. He'd vomited immediately and found himself on hands and knees right in the pile of bones and vomited again. Everything went dark for a while then.

Before that, before the utter silence and the unbearable cold and the hovering cloud of grey, all was chaotic madness as death took them in broiling increments of searing heat and agony. Panic. Hysteria. Passion. Fear so deep and encompassing that no thought could populate the mind, nor words order the inarticulate noise erupting from throats choking with the fumes of ignited kin and loved ones. He remembered the eyes and the gaping mouths, both so wide and so alien; they didn't look like his people anymore. They looked like Orcs. He started killing them with his bow, screaming. Screaming, too, his mouth and eyes expanded to grotesque proportions so that he must look like them, be like them, and he wondered if someone was aiming a bow at him that instant, or should he wait and kill himself once he was all done here?

This battle was not like that day of raving turbulence, frenzy, pandemonium and passion. There was no fire and no fear, or at least it was the normal apprehension of danger and death's proximity, while the overriding emotions was hatred. It fuelled a tremendous rage, unrelenting and overwhelming, that rolled through the ranks of the warriors and propelled them to feats of valour and of incredible artistry in the foul contests in which they had become increasingly adept over time. Precision and power married in the ballet of combat so that individual warriors became as one entity and the swords and arrows bristling from it were like the bright corona of the sun infiltrating the night, penetrating the interface between life and death; where everything happened and where fate, destiny, and defiance mingled. There was no stopping such an inexorable force and it seemed they would really do it, really bring that tower down, really destroy its dark lord.

A great cry arose among the fighters on both sides, an expression of victory and defeat that reached a crescendo of unbearable volume, and then abruptly its polarity shifted, the triumphant note deserting the pursuers to transform the guttural cries of the pursued. The wave of sentient luminance faltered, rippling as a single, shining spark broke off from the halo and overtook the glamhoth, piercing the dark, null space which encompassed them as they fled in utter rout. The bright star streaked amid them, through them, past them into the core and pith of that hollow, negative void there to battle Shadow one to one, the dark against the light, the fire in the night.

Everyone stopped as the duel commenced, mesmerised by the horror of it, for whichever one should prevail, the outcome would change forever the concept of what reality was and what was possible to become real or to make real. Remade. Reanimated.

And then, like a candle snuffed out, the iridescent spark vanished.

 _No!_

He was the only one among his people who did not cry out the word, struck dumb in denial and disbelief. It could not be true; it was an illusion. Time moved in infinite sloth, refusing to progress apace. The corona of light held still, waiting. No one wanted to be the one to see it first, that quenched fire, that disgusting heap of refuse.

Yet no loud chorus of brash elation arose amid the orcs and the Shadow drained from the woods, sucked back into the tower from whence it boiled out, a black tide, unctuous and repulsive, its volume dwindling down to noisome tendrils trailing past the toes of the trees, leaving behind a glorious detritus on the wasted skirts of Dol Guldur. Staggering and bloody and more dead than living, he raised on high the victorious dagger clenched tight in a gory fist: the bright spark, dimmed down to the winking gleam of a phosphorescent fly. He collapsed before Thranduil reached him and was unaware of the journey home to the fortress.

The King of the Woodland realm tended his son himself, trusting none of the medics to know more than he of such injuries. Who was not a healer in Greenwood? Who was not a warrior? The operation was the most delicate and the consequences so severe should anything go wrong that no healer would undertake the task

The wounds were not trivial and it took time to seal the worst, a deep slashing stab to the side and abdomen. Legolas bled away half his body's vital fluid before the closure was complete. He'd remained unconscious throughout the procedure due to a powerful herbal concoction laced with sylvan magic along the same lines as that which kept the Enchanted River a formidable boundary. Now he lay naked upon clean linen, all the filth of battle washed from his skin, all the dirt and blood cleansed from his golden hair, all the gashes and contusions treated and bandaged as need demanded, pulse fast and flighty, breathing slow and deep. Naked but for one article: a bracelet knotted about his left wrist, intricately crafted from ebony hair. It was never removed; Thranduil had learned the consequences of doing so long ago and preferred not to endanger his son's recovery by attempting to now.

In stockinged feet, Thranduil sat beside him on the bed, one knee tucked up on the mattress, one foot down on the rugs. It was not a cot in the infirmary but Legolas' own bed in his private apartment in the underground palace. On the floor in a disordered heap lay mingled the discarded garments, soaked crimson and cut into useless rags by the king's knife in his haste to reach the hurts beneath. Legolas' bow and quiver lay under them along with boots and other gear he bore into battle on his person. Amid these sprawled Thranduil's weapons: dagger and long knife and the great broadsword in its jewel-encrusted scabbard all flung down in disregard beside his boots, tunic, and shirt. He had wounds of his own, and while he'd treated his son others had bandaged him. Probably Galion, for who else would dare? He was aware of pain, minor and easily ignored. He perceived someone hovering near the entrance to the chamber, assumed it to be Galion for the same reason. Beyond this, all of his focus was fixed upon his son, willing him to wake.

Softly he caressed the pale tresses, tracing with pride and affection the line of neat braids above the ear, not so trim and tidy just now. He allowed himself a deep breath; everything would be fine; Legolas would heal and grow strong anew. Perhaps this would initiate the breakthrough he so ardently desired. Thranduil smiled; yes, the time was right; they had both grown nearer in their views. His fingers soothed over the smooth brow and followed the line of the straight nose, the stubborn chin, the fair cheeks still faintly clinging to childhood's fullness. Too soon time would harden those supple curves into hard planes and angles; he could see them already and it made his heart sore.

 _But he never was a child, at least not for very long, not since that day. Yet conversely, in many ways he has never matured._

"Legolas, can you hear me? Open your eyes; show me that you are healing."

There was no response, neither had he expected one. It was too soon, but he was certain Legolas could hear him and it was important for him to know he was safe at home. Thranduil decided it might be best to be explicit.

"You're resting in your own bed, wounded, but I have nothing but confidence you will heal fully; the battle is over, and I think we won. Not entirely sure since you did not consult me about it first and I've no idea what your objective was. No matter, I followed as soon as word reached me. Galion, of course." He chuckled a soft laugh and fingered a lock of the yellow hair, wrapped it round the tip of his index finger. "You might as well have told me all; you know he always betrays your secret plans. This time, he didn't know much, only that you'd called a raid and taken most of the warriors with you, so I suppose you no longer trust him fully. Now, wasn't that the idea? Surely, you have used him as the bridge between us these many years. Why not this time? Open your eyes and tell me about it, Legolas. What possessed you to try such a tactic?"

There was still no response and Thranduil sighed, shifting slightly to ease the soreness in his back. He flexed his arm and shoulder, peering backward to see if he could determine the cause of his discomfort.

"It's a shallow wound from an arrow. You were grazed. Moving too fast for it to grab on tight, but sliced off a nice chunk of skin and muscle as it went through." Galion's voice sounded, disembodied and bone dry.

"Stitches?"

"Unnecessary."

"Poison?"

"Assumed. I already gave you the most common antidotes, but if you feel any unexpected symptoms let me know at once."

"Thank you, Galion." Thranduil's voice was rife with warmth and humour while his seneschal's was replete with restrained exasperation and disapprobation. "Go on, then; say your part, mellon vrûn." (old friend)

"Nasan. (So be it.) It would be better if you left him in my care and go rest. He will not be pleased to open his eyes and find you here, and you will be hurt by it. Another terrible and futile argument will ensue; you will both say things that should never be spoken between father and son, and Legolas will leave the stronghold when what he needs is to remain abed. That's how we came to be sitting here today while he lies unconscious."

"I am not leaving him."

"I know." Galion was scowling and his voice held the expression so adequately it prompted a weary sigh from the king, but he did not care.

He knew it; oh, he knew it all too well. This contentious battling of words and wits, trading infamous insults and horrendous accusations, professing to feel only the darkest emotions a heart can harbour, this was what passed for communication between them, and Thranduil needed it desperately. They both did, unable to find any path back to gentler interactions. Legolas longed for his father's loving touch, yet could not abide it save when he was insensate, as now. Thranduil wanted to hold him and heal him, wanted his son back whole and well, and could not effectuate that result. He baited Legolas continuously so to engender whatever blasphemous outburst he could raise from him and thus know he was here, alive and present. Galion shifted on the strait-backed chair, the only one in the sparsely furnished apartment, taken from the austere severity of Legolas' writing desk, and loosed a quiet sigh if his own.

"It is all right, Galion," Thranduil reassured. "Go on."

"It must be said, forgive me."

"No forgiveness required; it is all right." Thranduil glanced at him, smiled kindly, inclined his head the briefest degree. "Go on. Say it."

The chair creaked a bit as Galion shifted, a vain attempt to discover a posture that would impart courage. "That was a morgul blade."

"It was; what else would a Wraith be carrying?" Sardonic tones conveyed Thranduil's feigned amusement as his narrowed glare sought the seneschal in the dark.

"We must assume you did not get it all."

"On the contrary, we must assume I did."

"Thranduil."

"Galion, it is not the first time I've done this."

That was true and Galion's face creased in anxious uncertainty. "Even so, I'm posting guards at his door."

"Unnecessary and ineffective." Thranduil was amused again and shook his head.

"And on every escape hole he's got made. He'll have to be watched, Thranduil. We can't have him running loose about the place until we know." Galion hated to speak these words and unconsciously had dimmed his aura until he was barely visible there in the shadowed corner, especially compared to the glorious light that encircled Thranduil and his son. Legolas outshone them all, so splendrous he burned; his very soul lit the room as Ithil brightened the night, yet this effulgence hid a far darker heart than Galion's bitter mood contained.

"Do what you will; it makes no difference. He knows you must do it and so do it, but don't expect to hold him and don't imagine a morgul blade can touch him." _What more could touch his soul and shatter it, already shattered and broken as it is?_

Galion did not bother to answer; he'd already given the orders.

The still figure stirred and issued a thin groan, instinctively suppressed even in this quasi-conscious state. A sharply drawn breath followed and expelled an expletive with it; a hand dragged toward the bandaged gash. Thranduil stopped it.

"No, it's severe. Let it be, ion."

The clear blue eyes snapped open already gleaming with anger. "You!"

"I am here, be at peace." Thranduil tightened his grip on the fingers trying to escape and settled firm pressure on his son's shoulder to halt the struggle to rise already beginning. "Do not get up; lie still. The injury is serious and you must not attempt to. . ."

"Take you hands off me!" The words exploded, incensed and virulent, cracked and croaking with pain.

"Not until I have your word."

"Noss dagnir!" (kin-slayer!)

"Your word, ion, and I will let go." Thranduil could not entirely control the quaver this familiar epithet lent to his voice even after all these years of hearing it daily, but he held on tighter and pressed down harder. Alarm arose in his heart; Legolas was very weak and ceased his efforts at once, gasping for air and trembling under his his hold. "Sidh, sidh, ionen. You are safe at home. All is well."

"Námo take you!" Legolas meant to shout, but the curse was a faint whimper and he felt reason slipping for a moment.

 _Or an eternity._

The rushing of blood through his veins grew loud and Thranduil's words became muffled, his worried face bending near, peering closely, lips moving, the sounds emerging from them disconnected and incomprehensible. He blinked and swallowed and when next he looked his father was pressing a cup to his mouth, tipping something cool and sweet into it. He swallowed again and felt the sudden onslaught of intense agony wash through him. Against his will he cried out, grasping hard at the arm supporting his head, legs thrashing involuntarily. He was shaking and so cold. "Ringe, ai!"

"The blanket!"

"Here."

The cover was soft and feather-light but it hurt him nonetheless and he moaned, twitching under its weight. The cup returned as his head was raised; he swallowed and tried to turn away but hadn't the strength.

"Again. Another sip, Legolas, and the pain should ease. Come now, another sip, ion." Thranduil exhorted patiently, calmly, infusing his words with a serenity he did not feel.

He was grateful to be obeyed without question and yet simultaneously terrified. Legolas never obeyed a healer's orders willingly. He had to be forced to the most mundane attention to caution and care, and his compliance was thus an indication of the degree to which he was depleted. Not since that day had it been this bad. With great effort, Legolas forced down another mouthful of the draught.

"Good, good. Now breathe and lie still." Thranduil praised him and settled the lolling head back on the pillows, carefully wiped the sweating brow and smoothed the scattered hair, glad the indigo eyes were shut in frowning resistance against the agony. He inhaled and exhaled a long breath, tried to erase the furrows from his son's forehead with fingertips that scarcely touched the pale skin. "Good. Sleep if you can; I will stay."

"Want you to go," Legolas muttered, barely audible, unable to keep his eyes open. Everything was misty and dark.

He drifted into oblivion, all the air venting from his lungs in a long, silent sigh; all the tension falling away as his eyes rolled back in their sockets. In anxious suspense Thranduil watched, poised above him, waiting for the next breath, and his fingers felt frantically at the neck for a sign. He found it and almost the next instant Legolas' chest rose and fell a minute amount. Thranduil smiled, breathed out a noiseless laugh, eyes suddenly filling up and obscuring his vision. Again he touched the long slender neck, kept his fingers where that rhythmic vibration transmitted through his nerves right up his arm to pierce his heart. He cast himself atop the worn and battered body, but carefully, so carefully! fingers twining now in golden hair, face pressed against the bare shoulder, and he wept and wept like a child bereft.

Galion left them like that, returning to his chair to keep watch over his king as Thranduil kept watch over his son. All in all, the seneschal felt it had gone extremely well, but that was not necessarily a good sign. He crossed his arms before his heart and watched.

It proved a long vigil; Thranduil fell into exhausted reverie, half on and half off the bed, mighty frame shuddering occasionally from remnant sobs, and Galion rose to pace the floor. There was little he could do; Elbereth knew he had tried. What would happen after this frightened him for Legolas was fey and dangerous enough as it was.

A morgul blade was a formidable poison few could surmount. Surviving its virulent attack was not victory but tragedy, for while Elf-kind could not be made into Wraiths by such a wound, the toxin brought other consequences more sinister. Slow and infinitely excruciating, the cancerous darkness grew, its victim aware the entire time, throughout the whole awful transformation that he was becoming an abomination: soulless and lightless. Had there ever been an elf who defeated such a wound?

 _Aye, there have been some._

The realisation should have granted him hope, but Galion could not muster any, since suicide was the most commonly chosen means of vanquishing the internal demon. The sylvans were a superstitious lot, not without good cause, and generally did not wait to see if they were strong enough to survive the poison, fearing more the possession that followed it. True, Galion was aware of at least one warrior who survived such an injury, incurred at the initial invasion of the Nazgul, but he, too, had sailed long since then. Legolas, who had never recovered from the loss of his mother, was unlikely to defeat the toxin and would go the same way as she; surely this had been the intent of the Wraith, dutiful to the will of the Necromancer who needed only patiently wait while Legolas' light was corrupted and darkened beyond the call of Námo.

Galion ceased his nervous pacing and peered at the glorious heap of wreckage on the bed, the pair of them so alike in every way, so afflicted and so tried, so weary and so consumed in sorrow neither remembered any other way to feel or to be. But that Legolas burned so brightly, he would not be able to distinguish where one began and the other ended. The seneschal groaned and covered his eyes, turned away from them. How could he endure the strain of what was now to come? Was it better to kill him while he lay unconscious? Could he do it?

 _Nay, impossible. No more would Thranduil allow it; he'd kill me first or, more likely, place his own body between Legolas and my blade. What shall I do? He'll murder Thranduil and while that might be a mercy, in its own way, Greenwood will fall just as surely. Already the people cower in dread. They know what happened. They know what must follow._

He fretted over it, trying to resolve some means to save them both. Should he contact Celeborn? Should he trust to Galadriel? _Nay._ Was it possible to convince Thranduil to journey to Imladris and the potent magic there? Nay, neither would survive crossing Hithaeglir in their present conditions, one soul-shattered and ruined, the other heart-broken and desperate. Round and round he chased the dire prognosis, looking for any answer that might be plausible, yet none could be cornered and captured and made to convince him of its value. They would not sail, neither one. They would not go to the Keepers and beg aid. They would simply suffer it out to whatever end awaited them.

 _He'll kill his father first and then himself._ The harried seneschal resumed his pointless steps across the floor.

It had been coming to this ever since that day. Galion halted again and looked upon them, realising who would have to take up the concerns of the kingdom once it was over, considering what he should do to prepare the people for this dramatic conclusion to that dreadful chase through the woods little more than two-hundred fifty years ago. Suddenly Thranduil jerked upright and turned a wan and ghastly face upon him. "It isn't what I want."

"Of course not," he smiled, bemused and touched by his old friend's concern for his feelings. His attention reverted to the silent body supine on the bed and he ran a gentle hand over the strong jaw, feeling the clenching muscles that ground the teeth against each other audibly. "He's suffering; you should have killed him then."

"Well, I didn't," Galion barked, exasperated and overwhelmed with sorrow. He cast himself back upon the chair and covered his face. "Perhaps if we send for Aewendil. He may know some spell of protection."

Thranduil looked to his most trusted counsellor, regretting his unguarded tongue and the blame he'd just passed over to him. "For him or for me or for you?"

"All of us," Galion grinned and shook his head, got up and approached them, gazed upon Legolas in wonder. "What a bold deed! They'll sing of it for the rest of time."

"Aye." _But they won't follow you anymore, Legolas._ Again Thranduil caressed the fair face so contorted in silent agony, wishing he could wipe away the affliction gnawing at his son. "I would take it from you if I could, this pain," he whispered, bending low to place his lips next an ear. "You know that, don't you? I would take it from you if I could and bear it myself."

"You can't."

The words startled him and he sat up, staring in consternation into those merciless cobalt irises, so hard and unfeeling. _Nay, not unfeeling, just filled with all the things that I never wanted him to feel._ Thranduil blinked and glanced at Galion, uncertain if he had really heard Legolas speak or if he merely imagined it, as he often did. The seneschal nodded glumly and Thranduil swallowed, bit at his upper lip, and dared meet those chilling blue depths. "Legolas, I am pleased and surprised you . . ."

"Get off me."

"Your word first, ion."

"Given! Get off me!"

Thranduil adjusted his position, pulling back but refusing to leave the bed, and saw that this would satisfy Legolas. Yet it didn't at all and he lay trembling in rage, lips compressed to seal the rebukes and ridicule just behind them. _And the pain._ His word was sacred if nothing else was and once given he would not sully it with any deceit by word or omission or even unspoken intent. He would not try to get up; he would suffer his father to remain. The king smiled sadly and just stopped himself from reaching out to touch his son. He swallowed to make room in his mouth for something other than clammy spit. "Why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Challenge the Wraith to single combat."

"You saw?"

"I was there; I saw. Everyone saw; was that not your intention?"

"It was," Legolas groaned; he did not want to talk about it now.

"Why, ionen?"

"To show them it could be done. To show you."

Thranduil bowed his head; it was a low blow, but he took it with neither remark nor rebuke. In silence he remained for a long time as Legolas drifted off into incoherent murmuring under the weight of his pain, and then he lightly touched the cheek still softly curved in the last bloom of youth before the unending years of interminable responsibility commenced. "I am sorry," he whispered sadly the things he could only say when Legolas walked in dreams, or he did, or both. "I am sorry you felt need to do this. I know you believe I should have done so long years ago. I am sorry I could not. It does not mean I did not love her; I love her dearly still. I love you more than her memory, Legolas. If I had gone to seek vengeance, I would have died there and I . . ."

"I didn't."

"You didn't "

"Die."

"What did he say?" demanded Galion sharply, hurrying from his chair to stand beside the bed, but Legolas was drifting off. He turned his scrutiny upon Thranduil.

"He is going to be fine," the stubborn monarch insisted.

"Do you know, I don't think he has ever been fine, even Before," Galion said. "You love him; no less do I, but it is time to stop pretending. There is much wrong with Legolas and I believe the only one who might be able to help is Elladan."

The sounding of this name produced a soft cry, a mumbled, jumbled contraction of syllables, sad and pleading as elegant fingers twitched and groped amide the folds of the blanket. A deeper breath moved Legolas' ribs and he stirred, fidgeting in discomfort as his eyes blinked open, evidently searching for Elladan as they roved the room. He was not awake; this was but an instant of partial awareness before he dropped lower into senseless dreams.

"Send for him," Galion urged.

"I will not," Thranduil refused, his tone peremptory and replete with warning.

Galion stalked from the room disgusted, recognising the futility of advancing any argument on this point.

It was some time later when the seneschal returned to the chamber. Nothing much had changed: Thranduil had changed into more comfortable garb and a loose robe; a tray of picked over victuals lay spurned upon the floor near the door; Legolas lay moaning in low, unbroken cries. Sweat had erupted over his flesh; the poison was making its presence felt. The king worked efficiently to keep the patient as comfortable as possible, for the crisis had yet to come. He glanced at Galion as he drew near, smiled a sardonic and mildly accusing grin.

"You wrote to Elrond, didn't you." It was not a question.

"Yes," Galion's answer was direct and unapologetic and he met his law-son's gaze with steady conviction that he had done right.

"I know you think it best and I forgive you," Thranduil absolved him kindly, "but I know Elladan will neither come nor write. He hasn't in all this time, not a single note, no attempts to get past the guard or flout the ban. Even Elrond will not reply, or if he does it will arrive here a month of days from now. It will all be over long before then."

"True, but I want Legolas to know I sent for him. It may give him hope and help him hold on."

"False hope, is that kind? Better he accept the truth and try to make peace with it."

"He is young to be alone for all his lifetime and I do not believe you want such an existence for him."

"Galion," Thranduil shook his head, exasperated. "How can I consider such a question when all of his life may be contained in the next few hours?"

"If it is, he should know we sent for Elladan."

"Ah, it is we now."

"You know it; I know it; and he knows it now, too. It is the way you have always done things and I have no objections, so what does it matter if the hand that wrote the request was not attached to your body, so long as it communicated the thoughts of your heart?"

"I am not ungrateful, Galion," Thranduil whispered, turning back to consider his son. He dipped the cotton cloth he held into a basin of athelas and water and dabbed at the brow and neck all slick with perspiration and an oily residue from the noisome poison. Legolas' eyes were open and focused on his father; the king smiled. "You are awake?" A slight nod answered and then a sudden jerk of the afflicted body raised a loud shout from the ailing prince as his muscles strained in unnatural conflict, stretched and quivering. It was over quickly and Legolas gasped, eyes wide as he was released form the spasm.

"Ada?"

"Yes, it has begun," confirmed Thranduil, taking hold of the twitching hand wandering aimlessly amid the sheets.

"M. . .morgul ?" He couldn't get his mouth to make words correctly; they remained locked in his brain, all crowding together as a throng gathered at a shut and bolted door, clamouring to be freed, all jumbled and incoherent.

"Aye, what else would a Wraith be using?" Galion remarked darkly, bending nearer. His grandson's eyes found him and he continued. "We've sent for Elladan, but you'll have to brave the worst of it without him."

"Elladan." Legolas spoke the name carefully and doing so calmed him. He inhaled and closed his eyes, squeezed the hand holding his. "Elladan." Then he frowned and trained his sight on his father's face. "He won't come."

"Nay," Thranduil shook his head. "But I am here, right here beside you and here I will remain. We will see it through together."

"If I don't. . .If I die, promise . . ." Legolas' thoughts were shattered as the next convulsion gripped him, stronger and longer than the first. It racked him with such violence he was robbed even of the capacity to scream, back arched, neck bent so severely that the crown of his head was pressed into the mattress, shoulders jerking in disordered paroxysms, legs stiffly trembling in kind. When it was done he lay moaning and bleeding, for the wound could not bear such stress without being disturbed. He barely felt the hasty stitching and dressing it required, too busy inhaling mighty lungfuls of air. A cup touched his lax lips and a hand lifted his head; he swallowed two mouthfuls of the bitter medicine and looked again to his father, but it was impossible to speak; exhaustion lay upon him like a blanket of iron.

"Be at peace," Thranduil assured him quietly. "I know what you would say and my promise is given." The fingers in his grasp tightened their grip and his son's eyes closed briefly, opened again with such a look of gratitude it shamed him, hurt him, and he looked away. How could Legolas not know he would avenge them both? Did he really present as such a craven character, cringing and pusillanimous? A firm hand compressed his shoulder and he looked into Galion's consoling face.

There was room for no more consideration of this nature as the seizures began anew, one following another in regular intervals, each one longer and more afflicting than the last until Legolas was reduced to struggling for breath, tears falling unchecked from the corners of wide and terrified eyes. Incoherent grunts and groans punctuated the awful ictus while desperate gasps and sobs defined the periods of rest, and after each attack Legolas grew weaker, his light dimmer. The wound opened and bled with each assault of the toxin and the sheets slowly turned red. After twelve hours, reason departed and he lay in senseless meandering, his cries pitiful, his tears long dried up, and he seemed to be diminishing physically, burning every source of energy available to combat the alien substance invading his tortured body.

For two days this torment continued so that finally he barely had wherewithal to respire or spirit enough to rival the smallest and faintest of stars. At the end of two days, he was still alive and the gruelling tremors ceased. He survived it and that was all that could be said; it was announced with solemnity by Galion to his king's nephew. Giliach in turn spread the news among the people, but there was no joyous celebration. Now came the second battle, the one for his very soul, and perhaps only Thranduil believed he could hold onto it.

He did believe and acted on that faith with a dogged and intractable determination to salvage his child. He did not quit the sickroom even for bathing, tending that task right there beside the bed, or for rest, his entire being attuned to one goal only. If he should waver, Legolas would be lost; Thranduil was convinced of this as surely as he knew the sun would rise on the morrow. He willed every ounce of light he could spare into Legolas' depleted soul, force fed him bursts of energy that were painful in their intensity, both for the donor and the recipient, that left the king drained and weary so that he had to stretch out on the bed beside his child. Side by side they lay there, hands still clasped, two dangerously reduced star-children clinging to life and light by the merest glowing ember of that precious flame. In this limbo they reposed, the vital spark shared between them, as six days bled away into the past and then both awakened, hrôa and fëa intact, though fragile and wasted to frightening proportions.

Galion now had two patients to nurse, but he reported this news with reverent awe, convinced that nothing could ever defeat these two if they worked in common, and that perhaps what Legolas proposed was not impossible after all.

Giliach came and looked at his kin, disbelieving the seneschal until he gazed upon the king's face and saw the clear intelligence peering out at him. "Muindoradar," (Uncle) he said. "This is. . .I feared the worst."

Thranduil could only offer a tired smile and waved him away, confident the realm was in good hands until he was able to return to the throne, and turned his attention to Legolas, whose brief moment of consciousness had quickly subsided into a more encouraging level of healing repose. He looked horrible, the worried father thought, and reflected he must have nearly the same ghastly appearance. A glance at Galion's pale, haggard features confirmed it and he smiled again, turning a bit so to be able to lean his head against his son's and carefully encircle the wounded warrior with his arm. Content as he had not been in centuries, Thranduil closed his eyes and lapsed into reverie beside his son.

***************************************

  
The stench was atrocious; an odour of putrefaction so intense and overwhelming that it brought him gagging to his knees in the bizarre, lurid darkness. He did not know before now that absence of light could assume a palpable, substantive quality. It was heavy and reeking and invasive all at the same time. Confusion buffeted his mind against conflicting notions of dark and light, silence and sound, life and death. He heard his own breath as he panted open-mouthed to avoid the worst of the noxious smell and closed his eyes to reestablish his concept of blindness, and this served only to heighten his hearing to an acuity that quickly became painful. Why was everyone shouting at him? He covered his ears with his hands and discovered they were cold and wet. With a startled cry he tore them away from his head and looked upon them; from the forearm down they were coated with a vile greenish slime that dripped off his fingertips in glowing, viscous globs.

"Augh!" he shouted and shook his hands, rising as he realised he was kneeling in the disgusting substance. He staggered, splashing awkwardly about in the cloying fluid, stumbling on things beneath the surface that sucked at his shoes. "Valar!" he bellowed, almost covered his mouth with those same contaminated hands and just halted the action. The stink became a thousand times worse as his movements stirred the putrid soup and he knew suddenly where he was. "Aelin-en-Gorthrim! Ai!" (The Dead Marshes)

'"Be still!" A stern voice berated and he turned toward it, shuddering uncontrollably as he spied what addressed him.

"Adar. Why are we here?"

"Because he is here," the ghostly apparition raised its skeletal arm and pointed with a missing hand. 

Thranduil followed its direction and drew a sharp breath, though he had expected no other. "Legolas, what are you doing?" Thranduil's voice was stricken and reverberated with overtones of horrified disgust, for his son was moving slowly back and forth, head bent down as he peered intently into the foul waters, poking, prodding, and raking about in the debris with a long spear.

"Looking for something." He turned his pale face upon his father a moment, training a sharp, penetrating scrutiny upon the king. It was only a brief second, but long enough for a thorough examination of the soul. Satisfied, he resumed his awful task. A muffled metallic clink resounded and he crouched down, stuck his arm down in the muck and rose with a sword. He examined it carefully and then made a disgusted noise, throwing it away, and continued his search.

"Manwë's Breath," mumbled Thranduil, heart pounding. "You mustn't, ionen; this is a place of rest for. . ."

"No rest for anyone here," Legolas cut in and stopped again, leaning against his spear to gaze at Thranduil, head at an angle as though he did not quite recognise him. "Why are you here?"

"I do not know," Thranduil admitted. "I would rather not be."

"Get him out of it!" Oropher's remains suddenly barked and Thranduil jumped, having forgotten he was there, but Legolas laughed.

"Why? Worried I'll find it?"

"No, you're looking in the wrong place," Oropher advised, "but I want to know why you are doing it at all. This does not serve your purpose, Legolas."

"What can you know of me or the fate to which I am called?"

"Enough, child."

Legolas turned to his father, his features evincing an abrupt shift in perspective. "Why have you brought me here?"

"Valar, I did not! I am following your path. Let us leave here, Legolas," Thranduil implored, for his son's activity was causing a macabre commotion as numerous gruesome figures arose from the inky water, disturbed by his digging and stirring. They collected in a small huddle and watched him, moaning and murmuring together, for they seemed to recognise him and Thranduil, but they did not draw near.

"I need to find that ring first," Legolas answered and waded deeper into the mere, a cloud of iridescent vapour clinging to him that softly ignited and became as a cloak of pale blue flame, billowing and fluttering behind him as he passed. All the company of the dead sighed and turned as one, following after him.

"Will you not act?" Oropher fumed at his son.

"What am I to do? This is his mind, not mine, another of his unholy dreams. As I am in it; how can I wake him from it? Valar knows, I would be anywhere but here."

Legolas stopped and straightened up, turned to stare at him, his eyes bright though he was so far removed, and all the drifting host of the fallen paused. A half-digested hand lifted toward him and brushed its decaying digits through the blue fire. In an instant all the dead were burning, stumbling about with faint and incoherent cries as they were used up and flickered out, leaving nothing behind but a thin twisting spiral of dark smoky ash that wafted skyward and vanished. The sight was so revolting that Thranduil turned and ran.

The smell dissipated as he fled; the ground grew firm and rocky beneath his pounding feet, and he saw that he was in Greenwood now, racing toward the impenetrable mass of black stone that marred what once had been as fair a site as any inhabited by elf-kind in Arda. He halted and stood gazing at it in hatred and defiance.

"It cannot remain," Legolas was beside him and spoke with determined vehemence. "Shall we go in and see what rules it?"

"No!" Thranduil backed away from him, but he hadn't any choice and soon found he was passing beneath the arched entrance into such an infinite blackness that all his senses failed him. He felt as though suspended, as though he were drifting freely in a dry river, for there was no sound of rushing water, no sensation of cold, wet submersion, and he could not direct the course of his progress nor determine either direction nor destination. He had never known a more bizarre experience of non-existence before and found it strangely peaceful.

"I wonder if Mandos is like this," Legolas sighed, very close beside him. "Why is your father not there? How can you abide his captivity in that foul mere?"

"He is not trapped there."

"We both saw him there."

"That was only your dream."

"What is dream and what is real? Both are of the mind. In dream I touch and see and feel everything even as do in wakefulness. Who is to say which is true?"

"They are both true, but the dream-time is for a different view of the world and your experience of it. That is why we dream."

"I do not understand you."

"What are we doing here and what is this place?" Thranduil demanded suddenly, for the environment was changing. They were no longer drifting aimlessly but stood upon solid ground, a floor paved in slate, the pieces cut and laid out in the pattern of a many-pointed blue star. They stood in the very centre of it.

"Dol Guldur, but we are safe where we are; we cannot be seen. She protects us; she made this place here. Do not move from it."

"Legolas, we must leave here," Thranduil took hold of his son's arm and held firm, squeezing and shaking the limb as though to wake him. This elicited an annoyed look and a shake of the head.

"We will leave in a moment, but I am here to learn something."

Even as he spoke, Thranduil felt a powerful urge to flee, for an overwhelming sense of oppressive malice seemed suddenly to be trained upon them. In that instant, the hold reversed and Legolas gripped him tight and held him fast.

"Do not move!" he whispered in severe timbre and dimmed his brilliant light until only the faint flicker of the pale blue flames hinted at his presence.

The looming malevolence came near, circled the starred floor, retreated some distance and there paused. Clearly it was aware of something unknown in its lair but could not discern the nature of the intrusion nor the exact location of the interloper. Yet, even as it could not resolve their likeness, neither could Thranduil penetrate the gloom to perceive the nature of their enemy, and he assumed Legolas could not either. How long they remained there, fixed and silent, he could not determine, but gradually the ponderous weight of spiteful hate retreated and they were alone. He was about to speak when Legolas' fingers squeezed in warning and he refrained. Tension shot through him from the connection to his son and he felt all the hairs on his body prickle as though a storm was about to discharge a bolt of lightning. Legolas' aura burst into such a white brilliance that it blinded him for a second and he blinked, opening his eyes to discover an apparition that smote his heart. There on the perimeter of the star stood his deceased wife, there in the very spot from whence that foetid presence had tried so hard to spy them. Thranduil moaned, sickened and saddened.

"Ionen, this is not her," he whispered.

"It is," Legolas countered. "I need you to understand, Ada. That is she, trapped here. Can you abide this?" As he spoke, the vision became corrupt, reduced in seconds to the lifeless mess her son had seen discarded in the dirt to be trampled under the feet of Orcs. Then her form altered utterly, assuming a shapeless mass of swirling darkness, a void which Legolas' light could not touch, and from it arose a long and wailing cry of grief. The blazing light was extinguished the next instant and darkness returned.

***************************************

Thranduil sat bolt upright to find himself in the bed beside his son, Galion bent over them, shaking him and calling his name. They shared mutual relief and the seneschal let go and stood straight. "My thanks," Thranduil managed, finding his mouth dry as dust. "Water, please." This was ready to hand and realising it he took up the pitcher and drank long from the lip of the vessel without need of a cup. He set it down and adjusted his position to view his son's status. "He has not waked?"

"Nay."

"I am awake." Legolas spoke, his voice wispy and faint as he opened his eyes and found his father beside him. "Tired," he sighed, closing them again.

"Then sleep, pen neth," urged Galion kindly, reaching over Thranduil to touch his grandson, glad to hear him respond coherently.

"Nay!" Thranduil barked. "You have slept enough, Legolas. No more dreaming, ionen." Carefully he took Legolas under the arms and raised him up amid groaning protest, settling him with Galion's aid against the pillows. The blue eyes focused on him in disapproval. "Do not go back there, Legolas."

"I am not, just need to sleep."

"Go back where?" Galion asked, his fears returning. "Where were you this time, Thranduil?"

"Dol Guldur," Legolas answered, "but I am not going back. I had to show him, Adadaer. He knows now." He was too weary to speak more and all their cajoling and jostling could not prevent him from slipping easily into repose.

"We have a serious problem." Thranduil shared his anxious concern with his law-father. "What I have long feared is true, and now there is a new wrinkle in the dilemma; he is being used by that demon in the tower to search for Isildur's Bane."

  
Six days became twelve, twelve multiplied into twenty-seven, and Ithil waned and waxed again to fullness seven times before Legolas was strong enough to leave his bed. Recovery from a morgul wound was rare, a slow and painful process for those who managed to defeat it. He was reduced to the helplessness of a babe, lacking sufficient strength for anything more than breathing and pumping blood through his veins. None of the healers understood the deleterious effect the toxin had on muscles and the nerves that drove their actions, but the symptoms were well documented. Legolas exhibited every one to perfection, wrapped in a lax paralysis that prevented him from raising so much as a finger.

During all this time, Thranduil tended his son, for his own recovery from the healing exchange of faërlim (soul-light) was rapid and he would have no other medic, not even Galion. He took upon himself the duties required: cleansing the wounds and changing the bandages, spooning broth and water down Legolas' throat, bathing his ravaged frame, collecting and disposing of bodily wastes, encouraging and reassuring him through the humbling loss of independence. It was safe to say Legolas had not needed anyone's help for anything, great or small, for a very long time. The king did not abuse this power by any means, instead letting his actions convey the love and respect he felt, hoping at last to break through the impenetrable wall raised round Legolas' heart. He was no longer either content or complacent in encountering his child through dreams, though their ability to connect in this way was strengthened through the process of sharing light. He discovered it was one thing to dream of reaching out to his son and another to be dragged into his consciousness. The trip to Dol Guldur left an indelible blight on Thranduil's heart and he was more determined than ever to prevent his son's obsessive desire to lay siege to the tower.

Throughout this long convalescence Legolas submitted to his father's care without complaint. Whether he was too weak to resist or preferred Thranduil's touch to having his depleted condition on display for others to see and gossip over was debatable, but he accepted the help with gratitude in his eyes. The first words he uttered once speech returned were those of thanks. It is impossible to be in such a helpless state and not find tremendous relief in being treated with dignity and respect. It is impossible to be in constant proximity to someone exhibiting that behaviour without coming to imitate them not through mere mimicry, but in genuine appreciation born of a reciprocal desire to honour that conduct. Even so, the two had been one another's nemesis too long for an easy transition to gentler, more conventional interactions. And while six months is a short time among the First-born, it is likely both Legolas and Thranduil found it nearly stagnant, though the king was not displeased with its slow passage. It gave him time to think and consider how best to turn his child from the dark fate he had taken upon himself.

They did not speak much, neither knowing what to say or how to start. Thranduil feared to bring up the dream and its implications; Legolas did not want to press too quickly for support of his battle plan, which he had yet to reveal. They were not shouting invectives and curses at one another and this was such a vast improvement in their relationship that each feared to upset the fragile peace. Conversations were reduced to minimal queries regarding Legolas' health, broken by Galion's much appreciated reports on the doings of the realm and its citizens. More than ever, his ability to be the buffer between them was ardently appreciated by father and son.

Now here they were at the end of this extensive interlude, Thranduil assisting his son to cross the room, a hand securely fastened under his arm, matching each halting step, willing him to make it to their goal: a sort of daybed created out of a comfortable sofa the king had ordered brought in to his son's sitting room.

Legolas' apartment was austere in the extreme, the parlour converted to a combination of uses as a study, a war room, and a small armoury. It was neat and tidy, but indicated more than any aspect of Legolas' character his sole preoccupation in life. A large portion of the room was devoted to making weapons and there were two bows in various stages of completion, a great many arrows bundled against the walls, a table on which the missiles were assembled, and three bows resting unstrung in the corner. Upon the walls were maps of Greenwood indicating the results of Legolas' extensive and continuous reconnaissance of the realm: every spider colony was known and marked, red for those destroyed utterly, blue for those yet to be eradicated. Every Orc outpost was indicated in the same way along with every known outlet from their caves in the Central Mountains.

There was a separate map implying a subterranean network that ran from those caverns to Dol Guldur. The overland routs the beasts had cut through the trees were likewise meticulously documented, red ink indicating abandoned tracks Legolas had forced into disuse by his constant attacks and ambuscades. Yet another set of detailed diagrams showed all the hidden outposts of his son's warriors, every treetop pathway, locations of caches of food, water, and weapons, all high in the canopy. It was an impressive display of the efficient, singleminded effort of a consummate warrior, and Thranduil could not help feeling proud.

Additional indications of his son's heart and mind occupied the space. Among the diagrams and the battle plans were posted lists of names and places: all the warriors lost while under Legolas' command and the site where they met their ends. Thranduil knew his son also kept watch over the survivors of these deceased fighters, and a second tally documented those families who had left Greenwood for Aman because of their overwhelming grief, along with those who had faded and were now in Mandos for the same reason. There was also a journal, a detailed record of every military encounter from the smallest skirmish right up to the most recent campaign, and Thranduil read over each one avidly. They were concise and informative without permitting emotion to cloud the assessments rendered, for every plan was outlined and then evaluated after its completion, with errors noted and steps required to prevent them in future.

Though he was impressed and proud of Legolas' dedication, it was disturbing, this room packed with its weapons and its maps, its plans and its lists. It was so empty.

Legolas groaned, pausing for a moment to recover his breath and recoup his strength, for the effort was taxing. Thranduil halted also and simply waited, knowing without need to ask when Legolas could continue and when his legs would not longer support him. A short respite was all that was required this time and he started moving again, calves burning with the effort to do the work, lungs straining to give them the air they required, every ounce of his concentration focused on the couch and its humble patchwork coverlet. Silently he counted the steps; consciously visualising each time he raised a foot and pushed it forward, set it down and let it bear his weight. How his knees shook! He felt sweat on his brow and his neck; his mouth was dry from inhaling great gasping breaths, the smell of his breath foul; he was dehydrated and swallowed with a loud, ugly gulp. Twenty-two steps and he was there; Thranduil lowered him onto the seat and then knelt to lift his legs up onto the cushions for him; he allowed that much after so much work. Their eyes met; thanks and approbation silently exchanged between prince and king. Legolas leaned his head against the pillows, shifted about to get comfortable, sighed and closed his eyes.

Thranduil took his own seat, the same simple chair that belonged to the simple desk, and watched from lowered lashes as Legolas fingers worried the bracelet, turning it and turning it round his wrist. It was an unconscious gesture, something he did when he was thinking or troubled, or both. The king waited patiently; anything his son might say was eagerly and anxiously anticipated, even if it was discordant and abusive. Legolas had not spoken any of those horrid calumnies since before the recent contest against the Wraith, and Thranduil hoped they were finally at an end. He cleared his throat and the cobalt eyes opened, fixed upon him in mild curiosity. The king smiled.

"You are getting stronger; soon you will not need my assistance to get about the place."

"True." Legolas nodded, trying to ponder what the meaning of this remark might be. "You must be eager to return to the more regular duties of a king."

"Nay, not so. I am content; it has beenenjoyable to simply be your father for a time."

"Oh." Legolas felt heat rush to his cheeks and crafted a frown to cover his discomfort. "I. . .uh. . .I am glad, too." The words were so difficult to force from his mouth and he shook his head, looked at his hands, smiled a vague, sad smile. "I know you didn't choose to let her die," he said quietly, unable to raise his gaze, but he heard the swift intake of breath as Thranduil registered this apology. "I was wrong to accuse you and wrong to hold you accountable for so many years. I hope you can forgive me."

"Legolas!" Thranduil was overjoyed and left the chair, knelt beside the sofa and gathered his son in his arms, though it was not the most comfortable embrace ever between father and son. "You need never ask that; you were only a child and the tragedy could not help but mar you. I am only pleased to find that your heart is finally healing." He released his son and returned to his seat, having fussed with the quilt to straighten it first.

"I do not think it is ever going to heal," Legolas whispered and dared peek at his father; the green eyes were staring in wide open misery and he couldn't look at them long. "Nor yours."

"No." Thranduil shrugged helplessly, sorrow contorting his noble features. "If only she were in Mandos, like Adaren, I could endure, knowing some distant day she would be returned to us. As it stands. . ."

"She is trapped in an unholy manner, the most abominable fate an elf can know," Legolas murmured darkly and lifted a countenance transformed in stubborn determination. "We must free her."

"Legolas, it is impossible," Thranduil almost sobbed and felt the sting of tears in his eyes, He rose abruptly and crossed to stare at the maps, seeing only the face he so dearly loved instead, thinking how fortunate he was to have that image to recall, knowing what Legolas' last image of his mother was. The king shuddered and sighed, shoulders drooping; there was no relief for them, no solace, no succour for their ragged souls.

"It is not impossible," Legolas insisted. "I have shown you the way it is for her; you cannot be content to let her remain trapped there. That thing is using her, syphoning off little bits and pieces of her light to sustain and nourish it. It will be long centuries before she is wholly consumed and I cannot abide to let that be her ending. She can still be salvaged if we can but effect her release; her spirit will flee to Mandos and there receive the healing cure of the Powers."

"No, Legolas." He returned to his seat with dejected sigh. "That is what this demon hopes you will believe. It wants your soul, too, and uses your love of her, your horror of her end, to deceive you."

"You were there; you saw."

"I saw what you believe, not what is true."

As quickly as this, the two found themselves at odds again, though at least they had not reverted to screaming insults and base accusations. They sat staring at one another, each bewildered as to how the other could fail to comprehend so simple a situation, how anyone could defy the obvious facts once presented with them, how opposition could be maintained in the face of such dire consequences, of so noble a cause. While they sat in tense, apprehensive silence, Galion knocked briskly and let himself in, held the door wide for another person bearing a tray. This was Giliach; no less a servant would king or prince endure, preferring to wait on themselves.

As he had after the Orc attack that robbed father and son of the one person most precious to them, Thranduil had turned over all administrative duties of governance to his nephew during this present crisis. He did not even need to ask it; his desire to be with his son was understood. Appointing Giliach as Regent had been Galion's doing the first time and Thranduil had never discovered any reason to regret accepting his counsel.

This worthy person was well acquainted with managing the affairs of the realm, having stepped in so many times when his uncle was too disturbed to function. As for Legolas, he never took part in the daily chore of ruling the nation, confining himself to the military duties with which he had become increasingly obsessed as he grew older. Giliach was capable and cool-headed, inheriting the less volatile temperament of his mother's people, Sindarin folk of Doriath who emigrated with Oropher. His father was Thranduil's younger brother, lost at Dagorlad in the Last Alliance, and his mother had sailed after that. Giliach had married and had two daughters, already grown with children and grandchildren of their own, long before Legolas' birth. He did not consider his cousin a rival for the throne of Greenwood, having made up his mind long ago that it was his for the taking whenever he chose to formally take it.

Today he set the tray he carried upon the low table and returned to the hall, bringing in a second chair even as Galion did the same.

"What's this?" Legolas asked curtly. He did not want company.

"We're joining you," announced Galion, "unless you have objections, Iondaer." (Grandson)

Legolas shrugged, frowning at Giliach as both sat. "I suppose this is your idea."

"What if it is?" Giliach laughed. "Am I not permitted to spend some time with my uncle and my cousin?"

"Your words indicate permission is required, and I don't recall granting it," Legolas snapped. He did not care for his cousin and made no pretence about it. "What do you want?"

"Eat first," Galion ordered.

"I am suddenly without appetite," Legolas droned, crossing his arms against his chest and turning his face away.

"Say what you must," Thranduil suddenly interposed, addressing his nephew. He would have his son eat and knew it would now be a struggle to revive even faint and fleeting hunger. He did not understand Legolas' aversion to Giliach, but there was so much about Legolas that was impossible to comprehend that he had ceased giving their contention any consideration. It was enough to worry over the enmity between him and his son, now unexpectedly in danger of erupting anew.

"As you wish," Giliach conceded reluctantly, compressed his lips into a disapproving line, and took a breath. "This stunt with the Wraith has the people upset, Legolas."

"Giliach!" Thranduil actually stood, so stunned to hear this blunt denunciation.

"It was not a stunt." Legolas could not have packed more contempt into so small a statement.

"What do you call it?" Giliach's tone was cordial and polite; his words were threatening enough. He knew better than to reflect the animosity his cousin expressed. Thranduil would throw him bodily out if he so much as allowed a hint of derision or scorn to taint his speech.

"Victory," Legolas was displeased with this response to his efforts and decided it must be the threat the morgul poison presented. "I am not tainted."

"No? I am not so certain," Giliach said seriously, evaluating his uncle's troubled face, "no more are others convinced."

Legolas followed his line of sight and observed his father's visage, overshadowed with pain and doubt. "Adar?"

"Ionen, I do not think you corrupt, yet your beliefs remain untenable." Thranduil offered this criticism as gently as he could, his tone imploring and miserable, for he was sure he had just destroyed the fragile accord they had only just achieved.

"Understand, Iondaer, we do not mean to condemn you, only to awaken you to the futility of these views. We've fought the Wraiths since their arrival; this battle of yours was no different except you issued the challenge personally." Galion hoped his calm demeanour and rational manner would forestall an outburst; Legolas was not closed to correction as long as it addressed tactics and strategy. He would always listen to advice where the efficient execution of his plans or the preservation of his warriors was concerned. "Many lives were risked, some were lost, merely to allow you this opportunity to test your strength against it. The people are frightened."

"But I killed it," said Legolas, confused. Didn't they know? How could they not? The faces trained upon his expressed shock and deep uneasiness. "Clearly, there is some uncertainty about this," he said drily.

"Legolas, I am sure your attack was as effective as any to be presented to those things, but everyone knows weapons cannot harm them," Galion said.

"You did not kill it," Giliach said.

"It retreated, having inflicted that terrible wound, assuming you would perish," Thranduil informed unhappily.

"You were there," Legolas said to him, exasperated. "You saw!"

"I saw you fight it; I saw you fall," Thranduil confirmed. "I brought you home more dead than alive; the rest you know."

"You are wrong and I have proof," Legolas retorted. "Where is my gear from the battle?"

"Here in this room," Thranduil answered him, rising. "What do you seek?" His heart was racing for the long hours spent with his son had given him to know Legolas believed this claim to victory utterly. He had assumed it was a delusion, yet now he spoke of proof; there was only one form of proof possible and he dreaded to locate it.

"There is a small satchel I carry to collect spent arrow heads," said Legolas. "Is it here?" He watched anxiously as his father moved directly to the table strewn with tools and arrows, retrieved the pouch and brought it to him. Their eyes met and he saw the fear therein. It startled him into quickly grasping Thranduil's wrist for a moment, hoping in some way to reassure him. It was such a surprise the king visibly startled and coloured as he looked away and resumed his chair. Legolas opened the bag as Giliach stood and spoke.

"What are you doing? What have you found?" He pointed at the small, leather bag.

By way of answer Legolas produced the ugly token he'd removed from the bloody hand he'd severed from the Wraith. A loud gasp met his exhibition and he smiled grimly. "I hope this makes you understand what I have long thought a possibility," he said quietly. "Not only can they be killed, but this one was not the original bearer of this ring."

"What? I do not understand," Giliach blurted out. He had retreated to his chair as soon as the ring was withdrawn from the bag and could not remove his sight from it.

"The arm I cut through was real enough," said Legolas. Whoever or whatever originally wore this article, the thing I killed still had substance. No doubt, that is why it had the ring on at all. It is said all nine were reclaimed by the Nameless One once the men were enslaved to his power."

"You seem to know quite a lot about it," Giliach said. He pointed at the talisman. "No doubt you found that ring in the forest somewhere and concocted this elaborate ruse so to startle the warriors and gain their support for an assault on Dol Guldur. It will not work; everyone knows the Nine are inviolable and can neither be killed nor replaced."

"Oh? And what became of them after the Nameless One's defeat at the Last Alliance? Have you read the histories at all?" Legolas sneered. He looked instead to his father, finding the king's face pale and his green eyes anxious. They lifted to study his, filled with questions and uneasy sadness. "It is true; you know it is so. Did you not see?"

"I saw," Thranduil nodded and looked to Galion. The seneschal was staring, dumbstruck, lips parted and eyes narrowed, watching Legolas closely.

"This is ludicrous!" Giliach stood up. "You cannot seriously believe his story, Muindoradar." He addressed his cousin again. "How many died for this false show of yours? What will you say to their families?"

"Twenty-six died, forty wounded including myself," Legolas replied evenly, a hint of a smile about his face that was unsettling. "The goal was indeed reached, Giliach, and this should give the people hope."

"The people are filled with dark foreboding," announced Galion. "They are searching the Prophesies again, and you know that will lead to no good conclusion. Iondaer, you must not expect support for any further assault on the tower."

"Indeed, you must instead remain apart for a time and allow the people to see you are not possessed," added Thranduil sadly.

"But I have proof," Legolas insisted, "that will clear away their fears and convince them I am the one they have been hoping for: the one to free them from the oppression of Dol Guldur. If Wraiths can be defeated, and I have done so, then there is no need to believe their master is any more invincible. I am going after that demon, the Necromancer."

"No!" Thranduil stood abruptly, meaning to take hold of his son and pull the vile ring from his grasp, but the evil in it was repellent to him and he fell back on his rear, stricken and impotent to act upon his fears.

"Yes! You will not and so I must. Do not be alarmed; I will not be alone. They would follow me into Angband now."

But he was wrong. Giliach convened the full Council of Elders and despite, or perhaps due to, Thranduil's half-hearted admission that he had indeed observed the Wraith's disappearance at the time he had recovered his son, the decision to forego any further assault on Dol Guldur, especially one led by Legolas, was unanimous. Incensed, Legolas went among the warriors to speak of his plans, to gain their support, but none would so much as hear a word of his talk. Not a single one believed he had strength enough to defy the power of morgul poison. His soul was vitiated and the body must follow; he was to them more dangerous than an Orc and they retreated from his approach. Only out of respect for the fearless service he had rendered all of his life did they refrain from doing him injury, though many were in favour of killing him outright, believing the prince they revered and respected would prefer that to a life of debased existence as one of their enemies. In the end, they could not endure his presence among them, and in defiance of the king's entreaties, the Council of Warriors elected to expel him from the realm.

Thranduil, deprived now both of the wife he loved and the child from whom he had suffered so much abuse, the child he loved more than he despised that abuse, was struck such a blow to his heart that he retreated into dreams. There he could still be with Legolas in memory, and he believed they remained linked as they had been after the exchange of light. Long were the conversations he shared with his absent son, and the people deemed the madness was upon him again; no more were they in error. Giliach, as he ever did in such times, remained as Regent to ensure the stability of the realm. Galion stayed close to his law-son, he and the two loyal guards whose duty it was to monitor their king's actions and report any unexpected aberrations.

For a time there was nothing to report and they began to hope the period of insanity would be brief and their much beleaguered monarch would rally and resume his role and rule them. Then one morning he emerged from his rooms dressed for battle and motioned his guards to follow. His manner was authoritative and firm, his eyes clear and his step sure and steady. They did not doubt the madness had passed and silently rejoiced. He went to his son's apartment and studied the maps and the battle plans. From the many areas needing action, he selected a carefully defined strategy and again motioned his guards to accompany him as he departed the empty chamber. They became a bit alarmed as he exited the stronghold and made for the barracks. There he interrogated the warriors and assembled his son's patrol, all of them eager for action, pleased and proud to serve under Thranduil's command, and they rode out of the gates to make war on the minions of the Shadow.

In vain did Giliach rail against this development. Without effect Galion urged his law-son to give up this quest, but Thranduil was deaf to all. He had decided that only he could replace his son and determined to advance the cause of Greenwood even as Legolas had done so tirelessly. He had decided that he must honour the promise he had made Legolas and take what vengeance he could upon the tower. Yet he was not really well and this soon came to be known, for the king continued his lengthy conversations with his absent son, discussing battle tactics and strategy as though the prince was there pacing at his side. The warriors began to suspect he was deliberately courting death. The day came when he took a wound that left him senseless and he was carried back to the fortress. There he remained bed ridden, once more locked away in unconscious dreams, and everyone believed he was fading at last. It was a sombre duty the guards attended outside the king's apartment, wishing not for the days of battle to return, yet displeased for Thranduil to endure so ugly an end as this. Yet, the king lingered.

Legolas had been gone some five years before anything untoward occurred, but the unexpected event more than made up for the lengthy tranquility. The guards were roused from their complacency by a terrible shout of fear and rage issuing from Thranduil's rooms in the early hours of the morn before dawn broke on a mid-summer's day. Before they could do more than be startled into alert attention, before they could more than share a fearful glance, the doors of the apartment were thrown wide and the king raced past them, dressed and armed for battle, his sword gripped in his fist as he ran.

"Legolas!" they heard him shout and then they tore after him, but he was quicker and knew the fortress as no other and lost them in the labyrinthine tunnels. They decided it was best to inform Galion, and the seneschal cursed when he heard the news, fearing the worst, and ordered one to follow the king's trail and one to attend him. He secured horses and weapons as quickly as he might and now all three went after Thranduil, but somehow he had done the same and remained ahead of them. It became all too obvious whence their king was going.

"Legolas!" Thranduil, lost in a confusion of dreams and visions, lost sight of his son outside the stronghold and paused gazing into the heights, panic blooming in his heart; there was no sign; it was as if he'd vanished. He blasphemed through taut jaws and raced on, vaulting onto a charger ready there in the stable yard for its mount, and galloped through the forest heading south toward the Black Tower, for there he would surely find him. _I must stop him before he gets there; he is alone._

He heard clearly the clamour of the glamhoth and the racket of battle, swords and arrow fire, orders called and shouts of anguish and rage and terrible death, death in the silence between the blows and the flights of the bolts, and then his son's voice carried over the noise. Defiant and dreadful, cursing his foes and taunting them, daring them to face him and meet their doom, he was using his long knife, the one he'd used that day, his mother's weapon of choice. From the timbre of his threats and the commands he issued, Thranduil deemed Legolas was winning this one, too, and entered fully into the fray, eager to do his part and fight side by side with his perilous child. He drew his long knife and called out a battle cry to let him know he was coming, and then he was in it, broadsword in one fist and the knife in the other, hacking at any Orc that came in range.

It did not seem a long while or a great distance, for at some point he was unhorsed, yet when he arrived at the centre of the conflict his son was not there. All the sounds of battle ceased and he was alone, surrounded by a dozen dead and dying orcs. He stood in the centre of this disgusting carnage and searched the treetops through unhappy eyes, praying, praying, praying the while to gods he did not revere.

"Legolas?" His voice echoed from the mighty bolls in the dense stillness.

"Thranduil."

"Galion!" The king turned to find his seneschal close behind him, his clothing stained and spotted with gore. His sight recorded the two guards, heaving in great lungfuls of air as the leaned upon their swords, battle-weary and spent. One saluted; he returned the gesture mechanically, addressed them all in general. "Where is he? Where is my son?"

"He is gone, as you know to be true. This cannot go on." The seneschal sighed and sheathed his blade, scowled at the unsavoury refuse in which he trod, and eyed his king in sad frustration. Thranduil was an unholy mess.

"He is gone? Where? To Dol Guldur?"

"Nay. To Imladris, sire." This from one of the guards, his voice sad and harried.

"No, he has gone to the Tower! Come, we must hurry! He must not attempt this thing alone, Galion. Hurry!" Thranduil clutched at his arm and peered about him, looking for his charger, but the stallion wasn't there, searching for the troops he had heard during the fight, but there were only the four of them. His heart stumbled and he staggered, suddenly aware he'd taken injury in the fight. "Ah."

"Aye, a bloody awful condition you're in," complained Galion, boosting him up before he fell, grabbing for the sword just before it dropped from his hand. "We're going over there to the trees. See them?"

"Yes, of course I see them," Thranduil snapped, voice low for he was hurting and wanted nothing more than to sit and drink deeply of that potion that would send him to sleep. "Sleep."

"Oh no, I think not," growled Galion. He hauled the stumbling monarch across the killing field and set him down ungently against the trunk of the old oak. Thranduil stared up at him, indignant and furious, but completely unable to act on his feelings. The seneschal smiled grimly. Without another word he set about staunching the gashes and gouges, stitching one that was particularly ugly, and then they sat together against the gnarled wood surveying the glade and its new carpet of seeping guts and dismembered carcasses. Galion sighed and offered the water skin; Thranduil drank deeply and handed it back.

"I cannot keep doing this; you cannot keep doing this," the seneschal ventured, exhausted and despondent.

"Aye, Aranen, no more can we," announced a guard. The two had assumed their proper posts and stood apart surveying the terrain in watchfulness. Neither had taken any but minor wounds, their king's charge being so intense, and they waited patiently to be acknowledged.

"I see. And what is it we are doing that you all find so intolerable?" Thranduil knew; it was a sarcastic reply.

"I mean it," intoned Galion.

"So go."

"That you do not mean."

"We're not going even if you do. You gave us standing orders never to let you out of sight even if you commanded us to leave," reminded the second guard.

"Did I?"

"Aye, Aranen, and I must confess Legolas gave us the same directive before he left. You are doomed to have three shadows."

"Well, it seems we are all afflicted with each other's presence, for I am certainly not going anywhere unless you are going there also." Galion studied his law-son, unable to banish his admiration for the skill and strength required to do what had just been done, but unwilling to let that approbation silence his tongue or stifle the truth. It was time Thranduil faced it. "He is gone to Imladris. You know it is so and there is nothing you can do about it. Come back to the stronghold and stop this insane play-acting. It will not bring him back; he has no idea you are out here filling his role in the war."

"He does know and it is not play-acting," Thranduil huffed in umbrage and pointed into the clearing. "Are those imaginary or real?"

"Oh, real indeed!" laughed a guard, shaking his head as he pressed upon a shallow slice on his thigh that still bled a little.

"Aye, they are real enough," admitted Galion, "and so are those wounds upon your body. Are you trying to get yourself killed? That is Legolas' strategy, so we have all decided, not yours."

"He is not attempting to get killed; you are all wrong. None of you understand him," Thranduil made an effort to rise but the injuries rebuked him sharply and he sat with a grunt, chest heaving, and rested his head against the bark, eyes shut for a few moments while he mastered his reeling senses.

"Perhaps not," Galion observed his law-son closely, but Thranduil remained in the present and he breathed a relieved sigh. "Nonetheless, you cannot keep doing this. You cannot bring down that tower anymore than he can. He will come back on his own eventually. You must be patient. You must be ready."

"No, he must not attempt the tower alone and he will. Don't you see? He would not have been banished had I not permitted Giliach to convince everyone he was either lying or already corrupt."

"Why did you, then?" Galion really wondered, for father and son often did exactly the opposite thing required to bring about their stated desires and intentions. He was interested to hear the justification Thranduil would make.

"I only meant him to give it up. I thought if he saw the people would not support him, would not follow him, that he would desist at last and let it go."

"If you thought that, you truly do not understand him," one of the guards remarked.

"He's right," Galion agreed, shaking his head. "Stop deluding yourself; you knew he would go to Imladris one day and your actions served to hasten that departure. Speak truth, if it is in you to perceive it anymore, for I would know what is happening if you would have me at your side to see it through."

"Mae peded, mellon vrûn." (Well said, old friend.) Thranduil smiled, an ironic laugh exiting his nostrils. He touched gently upon a sore spot throbbing in the back of his head and encountered the remnants of his tattered crown of blossoms. With a snort he pulled it off and held it in his hands atop his lap, picked at the crushed flowers and wilted leaves. "You guess rightly; I thought it might be best for him to go rather than see him fall at Dol Guldur. He is far from the site where Isildur was betrayed by and lost that other, more dangerous token of evil. Imladris is safe, or so I thought."

"Indeed, that was a wise and rational evaluation of the problem," the seneschal announced, pleased and surprised. Perhaps Thranduil was not beyond hope.

"No, it was a mistake. He's in grave danger; I have to reach him before something terrible happens."

"I don't believe anything evil can pass the borders of Imladris. Elrond will guard him well and we both know the strength of Elladan's regard."

"That is not funny, Galion."

"It was not a jest."

"Elladan's regard is non-existent, else he never would have left in the first place. I sent Legolas there where he's learned by now that he is not loved after all," Thranduil murmured in guilty tones.

"They do things differently in Imladris; Elladan has had a different upbringing. Under those customs, it is deemed dishonourable to press his suit once the parents, meaning you, have expressed disapproval."

"That is nonsense."

"Aye, if he felt anything he would not have retreated so far for so long," agreed one of the guards.

"It is unfortunate for the young one," the other added, "but I think if Elladan loved him, he would have returned once Legolas came of age."

"You see? They comprehend the situation," Thranduil scolded. "Everyone except you and Legolas knows this match is not desirable."

"Has any news come from him?" Galion did not want to concede their point.

"A request for funds which I discovered quite by accident," Thranduil told him. "Giliach sent him a tremendous amount of gold and jewels several years ago. Enough," the king revealed unhappily, "to furnish a great army."

"With which to patrol Imladris?" Galion was mystified. "I cannot imagine such a course; it must be for something else. He is building an estate of his own, perhaps, where he and Elladan will live." _Or he is building a ship._

"You are not paying attention to me," Thranduil complained, glaring at his seneschal. "Usually you are much sharper than this. Legolas did exactly what he said and that ring he holds is exactly what he claimed it to be. He has it with him, so I believe evil has got past the watchful eye of Elrond this time. I do not believe my son is out patrolling the countryside of the Hidden Vale. I believe he is trying to muster a force of men and elves mighty enough to march on Dol Guldur. I more than believe it; I have seen it happening through his own eyes."

"Ah." Galion was stunned for a second and then their eyes met; the seriousness of the situation asserted itself and the seneschal rose quickly, holding out his hand to Thranduil. "We have sat too long, mellon vrún. Come, the horses are half a league back." He hauled the king up and steadied him as they hastened through the woods, no more speech required between them, the loyal guards leading the way. As he'd done since the union of his daughter with Oropher's middle child, Galion would stand beside Thranduil and see him through whatever catastrophe awaited them. As they'd done since his elevation in the closing days of the Second Age, the guards would defend their king.

"Always wanted to see Imladris," quipped one, but no one laughed.

## Names and Such

Giliach - Star Crossing, Thranduil's nephew.

Adardhaer - Grandfather  
Peredhel - Half Elf  
Iondaer - Grandson  
Arador - Chieftain of the Dúnadain, lived III 2820 - III 2930 (110 years), and Aragorn Elessar's grandfather. Became Chieftain at 92 in the year 2912, ruled 18 years. Captured by trolls and killed in the year 2930. His rule was said to be 'uneventful' and my depiction of his character is purely invention. I don't think it too unreasonable, given that even Isildur had his flaws.

Arathorn II - Chieftain of the Dúnadain, lived III 2873 - III 2933 (60 years), Aragorn Elessar's father. Became Chieftain at age 57, killed by orcs three years later.

Halbarad - a Ranger of the North, kinsman to Aragorn Elessar, and for this this story his age is assumed to be close to Arathorn's, so that he would be a contemporary of Aragorn Elessar's father and devoted to the young would-be Kings of Arnor and Gondor.

Eärendur - King of Arnor, III 640 - III 861 (lived 221 years); King of Arnor from III 777 (ruled 84 years). He had three sons and when he died the kingdom of Arnor was split between them. The Chieftains of the Dúnadain spring from the lineage of the first born of these sons, Amlaith of Fornost, the first King of Arthedain. The names of the other sons are not known, but their kingdoms were Cardolan and Rhudaur.

  



	9. Chapter 9

## Eriador, the Ettenmoors

~

###  _Three Years Later ~ 2920_

~

Legolas thrust his long, slender blade deep into the resistant earth, felt the fibrous cellulose net of roots and rhizomes crack beneath the force of the impact, heard them giving way in a soft, whispery ruffle of shifting soil as the knife pierced the living land, the subtle compression when the hilt hit the ground rippling through his arm and easing the tension there. It was the only sound he heard amid a muffling backdrop of intermittent wind rasping through the scrub and the saw grass. The end of battle always held this moment of silence while nature observed in stunned and staggered horror the spill and splatter of spent life. Legolas paid it his utmost attention, trying to remember what that horror felt like and failing, but giving it the respect such desecration and destruction warranted.

He wondered if all killing transgressed the design of Eru or if it was heroic to destroy that which was in its nature a foul abomination against the pure and holy intent of creation. Could violence purge violence from the world? If there was any sacred spirit that authored this reality, how could such horror ever be permitted to begin, much less thrive as it did in this Age? No answer arose from the dense pall of the offended land lost in its muted requiem.

Sometimes, a similar silence preceded the onset of strife, too. He was particularly adept in detecting the minuscule difference between them, the infinite quietude following death and the brief solitude of its precursor. He was not sure which of these moments was holy and which profane, or if they were both the one or the other. No one had ever presented him an argument for either case, not that he had ever expressed this quandary aloud; it was something he was prone to ponder from the depths of that drowning isolation, numbing and cold, that inundated his soul after the killing was done.

_And, sometimes, before._

It was strange to feel the emptiness so keenly and he thought that a rather ridiculous assessment, for how can a frozen heart feel, yet it was the only way he could describe the sensation: a distinct sense of loss, a rankling, nagging, immature resentment for having been robbed of something others possessed and he did not. He should feel triumphant, pleased and proud to have removed from the earth a few more adherents to Shadow's dismal creed of tyranny and predation. He had felt that once, but didn't anymore, and tried to define when that ability to feel anything about it all beyond this great weariness had occurred. It was impossible; whatever or whenever, it had been expunged from memory.

_Or perhaps it just failed to register at all, the way one ignores sunlight._

Realising he had let himself go on little internal stroll of the mind, he found his senses suddenly alerted while he knelt before the blade, clean, shining where it lay upon the grass, his fingers just touching the deadly elegance of its honed edge so that he leaned low, bowed down as though in supplication to the Powers. Nothing could be further from the truth, but even so this was for him a private moment, a time to exorcise the mad hunger for destruction, a ritual of battle's end, and he was being watched.

He stood to confront the spies, knife upraised, and silence greeted him in both its customary forms.

A lean and lanky shadow fell across his face.

"Legolas."

He turned his sight to find Elladan there, haloed by the sun and the wind in his hair, broadsword in his hand and worry in his eyes, body tense and poised for action. Legolas smiled; this anxious concern for his soul's well-being was a balm more curative than any elixir ever concocted. He scanned him from crown to toes to reassure himself there was no injury to tend and took a step nearer, for Elladan hadn't moved. "Im vae." (I am well.)

A strange look crossed the fair face regarding him, the expression both sad and wary. "Good. Let me take the knife now."

Legolas stared, confused; he'd just cleaned and put away the blade. A glance at his hand revealed it there clenched in his fist, gory with a dark cinnabar flux intermixed with murky, blue-black ichor. _This is not mine._ He looked to the sheath at his hip and found it empty. The world reeled for an instant and when everything settled he beheld a scene of slaughter. Two orcs and a man lay dead, mangled and dismembered in grotesque fashion, the remains nearly indistinguishable between the human and the beasts. His knife was in his hand; there was no room to question if this was his work. That he held no memory of it, while disorienting at first, he also defined as common, normal, and no cause for concern. He would remember later and that was always worse.

The present was bad enough. His knife was in his hand; the hand was coated in carnage, the handle of the blade tacky. He was covered in filth, spattered and spotted with the matter and meat of their enemies. It sickened him; he did not want Elladan to see him like this, to touch him and be tainted with the vile fluids. "No, don't!" He dodged an attempt to take the weapon, hurrying away from him.

"Legolas, wait."

"Im vae! Im vae! Anno enni hû then." (I am well! I am well! Give me a moment.) Legolas broke into a run and fled, knowing he would be followed, counting on Elladan to grant him the time needed to cleanse the blade before confronting him again. "Why did you?"

The query was nearly a sob and Legolas realised tears were the cause of the sudden distortion of his vision. That made him angry and he shouted an incoherent noise to the heavens as he ran, but his turmoil eased for the footfalls behind him were purposefully slow. Elladan would keep him in sight but would not intrude until he was ready. He found a green place where the ground was soft and pliant. His tears ceased as he knelt and placed his palm upon the cover of creeping herbs and weeds; there was even a little athelas here. He sighed as he thrust the knife deep into the pliable soil, feeling the web of roots and rhizomes snapping under the force of the violation.

"Flâd-en-Arda, Haust-en-Cuil, Cef Aer, caro glân sen sigil agarwaen. Heltho ten o maw, adanno claur bant ben innas o hón ceredir." (Skin of the Earth, Bed of Life, Holy Soil, make pure this bloodstained blade. Strip it of filth, give back its full glory according to the will of its maker.)

He repeated this invocation innumerable times, the words brutally punctuated by the action, until the meaning was lost and his mind withdrew, suspended in a fugue of forgetfulness once more. Gradually, he became aware of the silence again and the smell of water in the dirt churned by his stabbing blade; that was good.

He rose and moved toward it, steps mechanical and stiff, and when he reached the little trickle splashing over a shallow bed of sand and gravel Elladan was there. Still he remained apart as Legolas stripped off his soiled garments and entered the stream, kneeling in the current's rushing chorus and sinking his arms into it up to the elbows. The creek ran foul for a moment but then cleared and this lightened his heart considerably. He did not like it when the water was still and the blood hovered on the surface, a ruddy scum that gravitated toward his bare body as though the taint would never leave him. He sat upon his heels with a deep, expunging breath, smiling as footfalls approached.

"I need you now," he said and offered a brief glimpse of the truth of the statement in his harried eyes. He found Elladan's upon him, glittering and hungry. A quick inspection lower confirmed the expected erection, hard and fully exposed, though Elladan had not removed his garments or even his weapons.

He remained where he stood, cock in his hand, held it out and thrust into it twice, a seductive shimmy of pelvis and hips that promised everything. The motion captured a glint of light in the burnished metal of his bonding band and that was his intent for Legolas noticed; the spark reciprocated in his eyes, flashing a glance that was both challenge and entreaty. The next instant Elladan was in the water, roughly shoving the archer over onto hands and knees, breath harsh and quick and ragged as he splashed closer, and with a firm hand on either hip entered the resistant anus. The body beneath him jerked and shook with the impact, but Legolas made no sound save a sharp exhale. For himself, a long groan escaped and he relished it, retreating and advancing with all the force he could muster, enjoying it fully, caring nothing if Legolas did, then suddenly caring more for that than anything.

He retreated from the tight enclosure and shifted, plunging into the secondary hole, so enticing, so warm and wet, and his lunging penetration eased into a steady rhythm that Legolas appreciated. He pounded into the squirming ellon, delighting in the frantic sounds arising from the Wood Elf now, sounds of exquisite pleasure reluctantly indulged.

"Am I hurting you?" He knew he wasn't, but he always asked. No, Legolas could take a hard, dry fucking and love it.

"Nay, aye," Legolas could hardly form thoughts much less words, "but stop, Elladan. Stop; go back to the other way!" He managed to articulate this much, but then that skilful left hand reached beneath his belly and clamped round his cock, started pumping in time with the potent thrusts. It was too much, too exquisite, and he gave himself up to it.

"You don't want me to stop."

"Nay, don't, oh don't! Ai!"

This, this union, true, abiding, and irrevocable, this bond that melded him to Elladan body and soul, this made all the darkness vanish in transcendent glory, this brief elapse of time when he ceased being Legolas and became something more, something precious and worthy, beautiful and needed, wanted and loved, when he could feel to the full, to the core of his being, that he was not alone, never alone. He was not taken but given, the light exchanged between them cleansing and renewing, so magnificent a consequence of such a simple act of coition, humble and earthy and necessary such that every creation under the sky knew it, practiced it. It was more than pleasure received and offered, more than hungers appeased and desires fulfilled. When they were like this, Legolas lost all distinction between himself and his mate, felt what Elladan felt, saw as he saw, thought with his mind, and understood him and loved him unselfishly. Such small allotments of time were granted them for happiness and he always craved more, even in the midst of their impassioned friction, praying it might never end, and he moaned in near despair to feel his joy climbing toward inevitable ecstasy.

"Wait, wait!" he whispered brokenly, the heave of his chest to gain air nearly a sob.

"Don't hold back." Elladan's pause for breath lasted three lunges long. "Come for me, Legolas."

When he did so, a violent shudder coursed through the archer's body and ignited such a fire in Elladan he bellowed in joy or rage, he couldn't distinguish what the sensation was, and the fervour of his penetration increased doubly. He had to give the swaying hips a jerk to force Legolas to remain alert and upright. He hammered rapidly in and out and allowed himself the intense pleasure of coming in that soft, enveloping heat. Ejaculation was sublime, enhanced by the startled cry of his mate, the sudden moan of exhausted jubilation that preceded the splash as Legolas collapsed in the flowing stream.

Elladan stood and watched him, victorious and yet filled with overwhelming tenderness for his young mate, and a sudden surge of protective compassion joined the sensation, for Legolas looked terribly vulnerable sprawled naked in the trickling stream. He removed his clothing quickly and waded in, knelt and collected the Wood Elf in his arms, holding him close, Legolas' back against his chest so the archer could lean his weary head on his shoulder. A contented breath respired between them in unison and evened out the pounding of their hearts. Elladan trailed a caress up the lean flat belly and gently thumbed a ruby nipple. The contact produced a tingly shiver and he smiled into dreamy blue eyes that reflected the same joy warming his soul.

"Was it good for you?" He always asked for it made Legolas laugh as it did now, a soft snort of mirth that was answer enough and both smiles grew larger.

Their lips met then, a long and lingering oral embrace, the first notes of the prelude to the second movement of their sonata. It ended in languid and lazy longing, Legolas' hand cupping the comely cheek before sliding back to card through jet black tresses still bound in battle braiding. He exhaled a lungful of happiness and snuggled closer, burrowing in against Elladan's neck, nipping faintly at the salty skin. "Let loose your hair."

"After I wash you."

"Nay, you first. I like to watch."

"Do you?" A pleased and surprised chuckle surrounded the query along with a strong compression of encircling arms. Lips pressed against the top of Legolas' head.

"You know it well," Legolas reproved, lifting his head to meet the bemused expression. This was an alteration in their established routine, their joining after battle nearly ritualistic, and it was fully so for him. There were things they always said and things they never said, an unspoken pact between them. Something strange passed within those slate coloured irises, a look of satisfaction that was altogether too complacent that made him sit up rigid, a sudden jolt of warning spearing his tranquil heart. The expression vanished almost before he could be sure he'd seen it. "Elladan?"

"What is wrong now?" Elladan complained softly and gave the pensive face a gentle touch. "Is it because I spilled in the female part of you? You need not fear as long as you continue taking the herbs."

This was sufficient to divert Legolas' attention from his nameless fear, replacing it with a well-worn complaint. He removed himself from his mate and rose to his knees, began sluicing the clear water over his body. "Aye, you know how I feel about it."

"I know it gives you greater pleasure." He watched the tempting display of Legolas bathing, the icy water making a wave of chill-blains course over the archer's rosy skin and tightening already erect nipples into hard, crimson nodes glistening and wet. The lovely little cock remained lax, however, and his brow contracted in a minimal frown. _That will not do._

"True, but I see no reason to take chances with so serious a matter just for the sake of increased delight. A life cannot be unmade once started, nor should it be made without proper intentions. I have told you plainly I've no wish for offspring."

"Why so? Do you think I could not care for you and the child?"

Legolas stopped what he was doing and stared, an uneasy prickling burning through his nerves. His eyes flickered quickly to the shining band and back to the face he adored; the anxiety vanished. "That isn't the reason."

"All right, forgive me," Elladan flushed scarlet and turned his face away with a sheepish shrug. "It is just that a child would be something beautiful, something pure and good. Out of all this death and destruction, I would like to create something pure, something of beauty, like you. Perhaps it is the edain in my bloodlines; I desire a living legacy. I would rather feel the abounding joy of being a parent instead of being remembered for this" he waved a vague hand in the general direction of the bloody plain behind them, "this unholy testament to my love for my mother, a killing quest she would never approve."

He avoided Legolas' eyes and busied himself unbinding his inky locks, making the action slow and seductive, shaking out the crinkled mane so that the ends of the strands trailed in the water and grew heavy. He heard the subtle intake of breath that assured him the Wood Elf was fully appreciating the show and smiled. He bent low over the creek and carefully worked the fluid into the lustrous filaments, eyes almost shut but open enough to let him observe Legolas' reaction.

"You've never explained it this way before," Legolas said, moved by the sincerity in the hesitant words, but the erotic image of Elladan bent over, hands playing in his ebony hair, the muscles of his buttocks and thighs tautly sculpted beneath firm, white flesh, the dark crease obscuring a small crease puckered tightly closed, was too enticing. He pounced, straddling Elladan's back and flagrantly rubbing his burgeoning erection into the cleft. "I want you," he growled.

"You seem to have me," Elladan smirked, "but it is an illusion." He reached behind and grabbed the Wood Elf at the biceps and the base of the head and flipped him neatly over his shoulder, dousing him in the stream with a loud splash and a harsh thud. In seconds he had him pinned down with the weight and bulk of his body, knees pressing into thighs, hands confining the sinewy strength of the archer's arms while the tip of his hardening penis poked against the writhing torso. He laughed. "Struggle harder, Legolas. You'll have to practice those close combat skills if you intend to claim me."

There was an abrupt and unexpected loss of all resistance as Legolas grew limp in his clasp; Elladan peered closely at the crestfallen blue eyes, half shut, face turned away, and loosened his hold just enough to encourage a renewed attempt at escape. Nothing happened; the ease with which he'd achieved this capitulation was disappointing and irritating. He found his desire flagging and pushed off the immobile body with a frustrated growl. The next instant he was face down in the rushing water fighting for breath in earnest. A desperate heave of his body finally freed him enough to catch a lungful of air and water combined that had him choking, and fury ignited along with renewed ardour. He threw himself sideways with every ounce of energy and landed atop the Wood Elf hard enough to drive the wind from his lungs.

Before he could recover, Elladan heaved him half out of the stream, enough to prevent any chance of asphyxiation, and roughly parted the long, bare legs, Legolas' reflexes still uncoordinated and engaged more in drawing air than evading the frantic and forceful penetration that ensued. Even so, he regained respiration quickly and made haste to halt the pounding copulation, voicing his anger at this second disregard for his oft stated demands to refrain from fucking him vaginally. Besides, he wanted his turn at his mate and would have it. As expected, Elladan imagined it would be easy to keep him down and was completely astonished to be bucked off after a particularly admirable head-butting that left him seeing brilliant flashes of numbing light. He rolled in helpless misery a second or two, enough time for Legolas to push him over on his side and shove a heavy leg up and away, revealing a tightly sealed opening which never yielded readily to invasion.

Legolas took him nonetheless, enjoying three full thrusts before resistance was renewed and he was soundly kicked in the temple, a remarkably acrobatic feat. Reason left him, so strong was the energy behind that play for freedom, and when he resumed rational consideration again found himself stretched out in the grass, Elladan seated beside him, worried and apologetic. Tingling heat on one cheek gave him to know his mate had been trying to revive him with this age-old method, and he smiled, noting lines of pain across Elladan's brow that must mimic his.

"Im vae," he said and made to sit up with Elladan's assistance. "Do not start begging forgiveness, Elladan," he warned seriously, rubbing the rising lump carefully.

"I was not going to," Elladan's reply was defensive and indicative of hurt. He sighed and touched his own rising bruise, offering a wry grin. "I suppose it was your turn."

"Well, I no longer care to have it," Legolas was all annoyed petulance, but he made no move to leave his mate.

"Do you not?" Elladan was certain this was a lie and began a playful flirtation, touching and rubbing and kissing any spot of naked flesh in reach as Legolas dodged and squirmed and shielded with arms and hands whatever part of his body was under this erotic attack. Then Elladan found a place beneath the ribs he knew to be overly sensitive and tickled him mercilessly, delighting in the peals of laughter this elicited, laughing along with them, and taking any opportunity to rub his erection on any portion of the wriggling body with which he could manage such contact. "Yes, you do; I know you do," he whispered, fingers finding the slender column of warm passion and softly tweaking the velvety head. "I want it, too. Don't deny me, Beloved."

It was enough to make Legolas freeze, legs falling wide apart as he watched the seductive fingers tease and play with him. He shuddered, suddenly turning to claim his mate's mouth hungrily, delving deep and thrilling to the strong suction that drew him deeper. His hands grappled with unruly ebony locks and became lost in the expanse of silken strands even as he felt Elladan topple over and pull him atop. The kiss ended with gentleness and smiles and a throaty plea.

"Take me, Wood Elf. Am I not yours?"

Perched as he was, belly down atop Elladan's turgid organ, it was simplicity itself to sidle down, his cock working its way toward a stretched and less resistant egress, and with slow, steady penetration he breached and filled his mate. Gulping back a gasping cry, Legolas retreated only a little before beginning to move in earnest, encouraged by a sharply exhaled expletive and a quick buck of narrow hips. Heavy thighs strained to lift and part sufficiently to make his efforts more effective, and soon enough moans of pleasure replaced any signs of discomfort or distress. He relished the steely confines gripping his cock and the work of wringing those increasingly desperate cries from the patrician son of the noble legend. There was a distinct, victorious satisfaction in reducing Elladan to this base capitulation to raw sensation, exquisite triumph in the pleas for more, the grunting effort of hips and pelvis to urge him deeper, the grappling of powerful hands that pawed and prodded him, holding on tight at hip and rear, forcing their motion to coincide perfectly.

Elladan's groans came long and low and as always, just as on that first time, he was shocked by the intensity of the pleasure in this manner of joining where relinquishing dominance gained him everything, things he hadn't imagined possible; security and comfort and belonging on a level that only existed with his brother before. Indeed, with Elrohir it was never this intense, the beauty and the delicious decadence of permitting himself to be taken, to be filled physically and to experience this outpouring of vibrant spirit inundating his heart. For an instant, he felt deep pity and sorrow for what his brother lacked and he could not banish the potent fantasy that arose, seeing his twin behind Legolas, driving into him, driving him into him, and with it the familiar coil of pending release built in his loins. He cried out in exuberant delight and clung on, eyes rolling back as the pleasure overtook him. "Ai, Muindoren, melethron!" exploded from his lungs even as his seed came with a short, swift burst. The moment was glorious and he spent several precious seconds in this blissful state before comprehending the stillness that surrounded him. He opened his eyes upon a clear, cold set of sapphire irises appraising him in stark disappointment. "Legolas?"

Legolas retreated carefully, disliking intensely the delicious frisson this generated through his body, and denied himself the pleasure of release. "Nothing is wrong," he lied, tone remote and empty, "except that I am still second in your inner-most heart of hearts."

"What do you mean?" Elladan followed him with his eyes; Legolas was back in the stream scrubbing at his body almost viciously and the skin quickly reddened with scarlet trails wherever his nails bore down. They streaked across his skin and then slowly faded, replaced by others, mark upon mark. It made his heart skip; there was an unhealthy element at work here he'd glimpsed often enough before, but not in this context. Until now, nothing dark had breached the barrier of their bond during coupling. "Legolas!"

"You called for your brother." Cutting him a dark scowl that warned off any attempt to placate him, Legolas stood dripping from the water and went for his garments, kneeling to wash them out, too. He caught motion and raised threatening eyes only to find Elladan was not coming to console him but retreating, apparently harbouring no intention of mending his error. That was unexpected and generated an overwhelming sensation of rejection and humiliation. _Let him go, then._ Immediately tears stung his eyes and he blinked them back furiously, almost rending the fabric of his tunic in his effort to expend the vehemence of the emotion assailing him. Was it true he had mere moments ago longed for an end to the numbing cold that froze all feeling?

  


###  Days long Past and Ever Present

####  _Fangorn ~ TA 2665_

"I feel stronger today."

"That is good, but we cannot risk a long journey yet. We will stay here for a time."

"Nay, we should go now. I feel much stronger; I'm sure I could ride behind you without harm."

"You have lain in fevered sickness many days that you do not recall. Your body is depleted and will not sustain such a strain. It is too soon."

"But he's looking for me, I know he is."

"He has no means to know we are here in this place."

"The trees will tell him."

Seeing his words were not taken seriously, but a sign of renewed madness brought on by the sickness, the child bowed his head and wept bitterly. Strong arms immediately encircled him and held him safe and secure, soft words and entreaties and promises rained upon him like the softest of nurturing showers in springtide, but the comfort was flawed. He knew what he knew and could not explain for he was only a child.

"There now, you must not give in to these fears and fancies, Legolas. Here we have a tidy home and no folk venture here who might pass along the news of Fangorn's newest residents. Trust me, pen dithen; I will keep you safe. He will not find you here." Elladan did his best to soothe the boy, but Legolas was inconsolable and clung to him tighter than a babe to his mother. His fear of imminent separation tore at Elladan's heart, for he meant to give the suffering soul ease and freedom, not this endless nightmare of waking darkness that enshrouded the once bright spirit. He did not know what else he might do to appease him; a journey was out of the question.

Getting him to Lorien had been dangerous and initiated a serious relapse which only the light of Nenya had stalled. That had been sobering enough, yet the decision of Celeborn to permit Thranduil to take the child away forced Elladan to a rash action that nearly cost Legolas his life a third time. The abduction and flight to Fangorn had occurred on the second night of Legolas' journey home, a feat legendary both for the stealth with which it was undertaken and the infamy of so bold an act. In fact, it was Legolas who had stolen away from his people, trusting that his saviour would be following his trail. He had made his way straight to Elladan and fallen literally in his lap, bleeding and drained and verily incoherent. Elladan wasted no time scooping him up and fleeing, for already the sounds of alarm echoed through the land. The Wood Elves were in pursuit.

What gave him the idea he could not say, but Elladan made the decision to seclude himself and his charge in the one place a Wood Elf should have looked: the trees. The camouflage of Lorien's cloaks made them nearly invisible and the searching elves passed by and around them without noting anything unusual. None of them expected him to remain in the forest. They backtracked all the way to Lorien without sign of the two, though indications of Elladan's careful hunting were quickly discovered.

The Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood were confronted and denied any knowledge of the kidnapping; indeed, both were alarmed at their grandson's loss of judgement to make such a mistake and endanger the child. They worried aloud as to the health of his mind and soul and asked again for the details of the battle and its aftermath. This in turn angered Thranduil, who cared nothing about comprehending Elladan's actions and only demanded his child be returned.

The Mirror was consulted and yielded nothing of useful import. The blurred scenes hinted at disaster one instant, then resolved into beauty and peace the next, the two elves viewed at this age and that, in this place and that, sometimes hale and whole, other times dying in terrible agony, still other scenarios showed them parted, wasting in the desolation of fading. Sometimes Legolas was the wounded child and then the roles would reverse and Elladan would appear as the injured youth. To say it was disturbing was to say nothing, and this is precisely what they shared afterward: nothing. For these images gave the elves chills of terror. Fate was still undetermined for the missing pair, a state of being to be feared more than any other, and in this case the degree of uncertainty was extreme, showing that even what had already passed into history was not set. Every one of them wished they had not besought the Mirror's rede, save Thranduil who asked to see again and again. The scenes were never the same and he seemed excited about this. He raised shining eyes to Galadriel.

"Have you ever observed a similar example of fate's reversal?" he asked in restrained eagerness, fingers nervously pinching the edge of the basin where the water swirled in cloudy confusion.

"Yes," Galadriel hesitated, disturbed, "but I know no report of past deeds ever being undone."

"How would you?" Thranduil laughed, gleeful and rather surprised she did not appear to comprehend what the Mirror's scenes proved.

The Lady of Light stared at him, then shared her concern with her husband, who took her hand and gently squeezed, seeing the kernel of hope hiding in her sombre eyes. "Do not assume it is possible," he whispered.

"Do not assume it is not," retorted Thranduil, shaking his head at them. He had no more to say and left them in the shaded dell beside the mystical Mirror powered by Nenya. He searched every bough and boll of Lothlorien, disbelieving Elladan would really place his son in danger, but the result was negative. He turned his eyes to the south, to Fangorn. "There is no other place he would attempt," he insisted.

"He might have gone deep into Mirkwood, for much of the forest is abandoned by your people now," objected Galadriel. "Who would think to seek him in his own world?"

"Do you think my trees would hide my son from me?" snapped Thranduil and left her before he said what he might regret, before she could remind him that his trees had indeed betrayed him.

They hid the child at the child's bidding, for Legolas was born beneath the eaves of Greenwood of a sylvan Lady, and his father was not. Legolas was theirs and his mother was theirs and a word from either meant more than all the impassioned pleas of an anxious and agitated father, especially when that father, that husband, had made errors against them both. Not lightly did the child accuse his sire, and the trees had heard all, felt all, seen all in their strange and alien way that only a Wood Elf brought into life amid their limbs could understand.

Seeing his kinsman's agitation, Celeborn followed him, but slowly, so to give Thranduil time to gather his emotions in hand. Then he made a suggestion that was hard to hear:

"Let me send trackers to follow my grandson's path. Elladan trusts my loyal Galadhrim and numbers among them many friends. They will have a better chance of getting near enough to convince him of his errors. If they succeed, the child will be safely returned here. If not, at least we will know his position and once found, they will not lose his trail. Stay here and let me send forth Haldir."

After much anguished argument, the woodland King consented to let him try his way to uncover the child's hiding place. The distraught father resolved himself to patience and permitted his kinsman to order things as he would, silently determined to wait no more than a ten day for results, feeling in his bones the chance of healing his child ebbing with every passing moment. Great was the restraint of the King as Lorien's best sylvan trackers departed to discover the trail their Sindarin cousins could not. Even as Thranduil had guessed, they picked up the traces at the verge of Greenwood, and Fangorn could be the only destination, since they had not come to the Golden Wood.

Unbeknownst to Celeborn, the distraught father had the trackers tracked.

"We must go, now, or it will be too late," pleaded the child. "I will suffer, but not so much as if I were to be taken away. Please, you must humour me!"

"Legolas."

"Nay! You think I know nothing, but you are the one who knows nothing of trees and woods and green life!" Legolas railed, desperate to make Elladan understand. "They are coming for me, my people, and they will take me away if we do not move now."

"I know your fears are real enough," Elladan soothed, "but they are irrational nonetheless. They cannot know whence we have secreted ourselves in all this great and ancient forest. Be at peace."

"I will not go back," Legolas announced, standing there defiant and yet lost, for he did not know where he would go. He could not war against his own people, despite his threats upon Thranduil.

"You need not," Elladan assured, smiling at this figure of adamant rebellion, stubborn and intractable in his youthful heart, and settled a gentle but firm hand on the narrow shoulder, feeling under his hand the strength of muscles trained from the earliest days of life to fight. His smile died as he stared into those indigo eyes; Legolas' ability to defend himself physically was not in question, but the wild glint shining from the harried soul reminded him of the horrible scene transpired mere days ago. There was so much wrong in him that needed healing and he wondered if anyone would be able to mend what had broken, and what would become of Legolas if not. There was something brutal and barbaric looking back at him behind those pale blue eyes that made Elladan's stomach squeeze up uncomfortably and set his pulse racing.

"All right, we will go from here." He reversed himself without comment or explanation, abruptly, and did not question his motives, sensing only that if he did not accede to the child's demands Legolas would leave on his own and perish alone in some rough, unwholesome place. _Even if his body lives on, it will not be him inside anymore._ His decision was rewarded with a great sigh of relief that was nearly a sob as lean arms encircled his waist tight and Legolas buried his face against his heart.

"Thank you," the whispered words were earnest and Legolas inhaled a strengthening breath as he stood back again and peered up into the solemn face regarding him. "Fangorn will shield us as best it can, but will not deny the truth. If Thranduil asks, they will answer honestly, and he will know."

"I accept your knowledge of wood-lore must be greater than mine," Elladan answered, carefully sitting Legolas down before breaking their camp and removing all traces of their presence, "yet I do not believe the trees here would give us away so readily. Still, we go."

"But not deeper into the forest," warned Legolas. "We need to stay in the outer circle of the youngest trees."

"Why?"

"The old ones have no need to respect us, and they do not. They want us to go away. They do not want any trouble with elvish folk, nor do they want friendship with them. They want to be left to their life as it was and has always been, long before we awakened."

There was nothing to say to this, for to Elladan such notions were purely a child's imagination of reality rather than the actual state of things. He did not deny the honour and dignity and value of green life, but neither did he understand or even hear the voice of the forest as a coherent collection of thoughts and emotions. Even so, he could not deny the sensation of being watched and the uneasy consciousness of a larger presence surrounding them. He hastened his actions and readied his charger and then lifted the child up, not mounting behind him but leading Namië instead, silently obeying Legolas' instruction and keeping within a narrow band of the trees just beyond sight of the full light of day upon the open ground. He was mindful to obscure any sign of their passage, though Legolas seemed to feel such attempts were futile. So it proved to be.

"We are being followed," the child complained. "We delayed too long and now we have been discovered."

"I suspected as much," Elladan conceded grimly, though how the child could be so sure troubled him. Did he simply know his father's nature or could he sense the hunters closing in? "I am sorry I did not heed your advice."

"It is no use being sorry," Legolas snapped, irritated, but then he added more thoughtfully: "It is not Adar; it is someone you know for all his mind is bent upon what will happen. He is full of fear for what he might have to do. Go and reassure him no violence is necessary."

Even as Elladan stared at the child with mouth agape, a soft bird call sounded through the eternal twilight of the ancient wood and he recognised it easily, for it was not that of a natural avian of the forest, and whistled the counter sign. The identity of their pursuer gave him cause for wrath, for it was one thing for Thranduil to be seeking him, but another for his own people to come out against him. He put Legolas up a tree with instructions not to interfere, then lay in wait to accost Haldir.

This ambush was in turn expected and Haldir did not gallop headlong into the trap but merely camped a half league away, perceiving the intensity of Elladan's anger all that distance between them as though they stood side by side. Night fell as the March Warden simply waited, quiet and calm, at least outwardly, for he could not stop himself from experiencing a ponderous weight of foreboding. Could he raise sword against his life-long friend over such a cause? The question was soon put to him directly.

"Are we to come to bloodshed and battle, Haldir?" Elladan's disembodied voice was full of rancorous despair.

"That is for you to decide. For my part, I hope not," Haldir answered, infusing the words with all his deep regard for the harried ellon. "Please, come forward and let us talk. I am ready to greet you as I ever have, gwador nín." To his great relief, Elladan came into the clearing and the light of the stars reflected in his darkened eyes, but not upon a naked blade. "Welcome and well-met!" Haldir smiled with genuine happiness and offered his sword arm empty, his other hand raised on high, for his bow was still unstrung.

"Mae govannen, mellon," Elladan spoke and grasped his arm, glad he had put his weapon away before he called out. "I hope we may part in the same affinity. I knew there would be a pursuit, but didn't believe you would lead it."

"Who else?" Haldir shrugged.

"I expected the father."

"Nay, Celeborn convinced him to be patient and the king remains in Lorien, but I believe his loyal guard is on my trail. As for me, I volunteered for this duty and Celeborn accepted, for he knows I would not harm you no matter the discord between you and me."

"Is there discord?" Elladan eyed him keenly and folded his arms across his chest. "It did not seem so when I brought the boy across Nimrodel."

"Truth," Haldir dipped his head, and herein was his real quandary for he was of like mind to Elladan. "I do not dispute it and my heart has not changed. Still, the father is within his rights. Elladan, you must give up the child."

"Strange rights that let a youth become subject to the person who caused his mother's death."

"Thranduil did not do so intentionally and they live beyond the aid of any magic save the primitive weirds and wards the sylvan's ancient lore-folk know to create: waters that make one sleep until dead, fires that spring up to consume an enemy, deadly spiders who have outgrown their domestication and reverted to wild predators. What help are those paltry tricks against the growing might of Dol Guldur and the masses of Orcs collected there? I have heard the king speak and his words were severe: even the Central Mountains are now in enemy hands and Thranduil's folk dwell in caves, fearful to venture across the Forest Road. How could he have saved her? From your own account, she was beyond help before you arrived on the scene."

"He could have prevented it by making sure she was not out in that place, exposed to such horrors," growled Elladan.

"Yes, I feel that also and wanted an explanation from him. For that matter, why was the child in such a dangerous zone?"

"Indeed! You voice my own question." Elladan complained. "You heard him insist it was not meet to interrogate him as one would a criminal, citing his grieving heart and bleeding soul as excuses to spare him the burden of reply. To Celeborn he said this, his own kinsman! I tell you, we had only concern for the child and he refused to allay our fears on the basis of his personal pride and nothing less."

"That is harsh," Haldir frowned, not as certain. "He is suffering; anyone looking at him can behold this truth."

"Then why refuse to answer?"

"I confess I don't have any idea better than yours. Clearly, he loves them both and did not intend any harm to befall them. Even you must acknowledge this."

"Yes, yes, I do, of course," Elladan huffed in exasperation and raked his fingers through his hair. "Yet if he really loves Legolas then he should make accommodation to have his soul healed of this horror. Why does he deny the child such basic care? Again it is his false pride!"

"Well, we agree his decision does not entirely serve the child, but neither does yours," Haldir raised a quelling hand in warning to forestall a retort. "Let us not argue the King's mindset, but seek a solution. What is the remedy? Who would gainsay Thranduil's rights as a father to oversee his son's care? I know not to whom you might appeal."

"You would not stand in aid of a child against a superior foe?"

"You know better than to ask this," Haldir admonished, disturbed at such a characterisation of Thranduil, no matter the monarch's reputation for hot-headed, hasty action. It was undeserved, as any residing in Lorien knew well. "The child is not in real danger from his own kinfolk, Elladan. He is distraught and heart-sick, and above all his thoughts are distorted by profound grief. How can you fail to perceive this?" That Elladan could not, or would not, was equally unsettling.

"Just because he is a child does not mean he is incapable of speaking truth," Elladan rejected his friend's assessment. "He is no common child, Haldir, but possesses wisdom far beyond his years."

"Enough." Haldir could abide no more. "Make peace with the father and beg leave to remain in the woodland realm as the child's tutor and guardian."

"Legolas does not wish to remain there."

"The child cannot be permitted to make this decision," Haldir complained. "This is unreasonable, Elladan! Apologise to Thranduil and beg mercy; then he may allow you to stay at the boy's side as he heals. Otherwise, you will probably never see him again."

"Indeed, that is my fear, for if left in Mirkwood I believe he will fade," Elladan revealed. "He has a strong desire to quit that place and I must do all I can to fulfil his wish."

"Why?" Haldir demanded, irritated. "Surely you can hear how ridiculous that statement sounds?"

"It is not ridiculous!"

"Enough of this," Haldir was saddened. "Where is he, Elladan? You know you cannot keep him for yourself, no more can you drag him on a long journey with such injuries."

"I mean no such thing. We only need time and peace; give me but a year's duration, just one journey of the sun. I can heal him if left to do it."

"Your skill I do not doubt, but it is not your decision to make."

"No, it is his and he has chosen whom he would have attend his ills."

"Then return to Mirkwood with him," Haldir urged, for this was the obvious solution and he could not comprehend Elladan's reluctance. As he watched, a shudder of revulsion shook his friend's stalwart frame and he grew pale.

"I cannot," Elladan admitted, turning abruptly aside and pacing back and forth as he spoke. "There is in me an aversion to those dark and twisted trees and the dark and twisted people living beneath them. I I felt something when I was there, Haldir."

"What?"

"I cannot say; it was like the portend of some grave doom. I felt my death in there." He had halted, back to his friend as he tried to define his fears, unwilling to look upon Haldir's scorn of it, if that should be revealed. There was only a sharply indrawn breath and when he glanced back, Haldir's face was pale and his eyes large; everyone knew the sons of Elrond were open to the influence of Melian's Gift. "I have to keep Legolas out of there."

"Elladan," Haldir shook his head and reached out to touch the orc-slayer's arm. "I respect your far-sight, but I cannot allow this."

"That is not your prerogative."

"Alas, it is my sworn duty.

"Will we come to violence after all this talk?"

"As I said, I would not have it so," repeated Haldir grimly.

"Then stop following us. You cannot reveal what you do not know."

"That is a narrow scruple you ask me to adopt."

"For the cause of our long friendship, I do ask it," Elladan pleaded quietly.

A troubled silence fell between them, each holding the other's eyes as the March Warden fought within himself, weighing his decision carefully, but in reality he had made it the day he was chosen for the mission. He believed it was the reason Celeborn had chosen him, and though he grimaced and sighed as the lengthy communion broke at last, he was truly lighter in heart.

"So be it. I trust you to do what is right and best for the child. Even so, I urge you to change your plans, for you only delay the inevitable. The Wood Elves are tracking me as the surest means to find you, and Thranduil's shadow is with them. What will happen when he catches you up?"

"He may not find it any more easy to do so," Elladan grinned, "than he did when first I departed Greenwood with Legolas." He lost his smile on seeing the anxious look fill his friend's eyes and laid an assuring hand on Haldir's shoulder. "Fear not; I will not defy them to my death should the woodland folk truly corner us."

"You will give over the child then?"

"Only if there is no other option."

"This is rash, Elladan, and fully outside any law I can name. I beg you to rethink this plan!"

"You have done your duty, Haldir, and all that is left me is to beg one favour more. If I come to be in need do not deny me, for it will be for Legolas' sake more than mine."

"Of course!" Haldir affirmed this pledge strongly, disturbed that he could not promise more, and reached out and clasped Elladan's shoulder in turn. "I will keep watch here. What you do I must not know. Go in peace and safety, gwador!" He watched as Elladan turned and melted into the darkness, determined to provide ample warning should any of the woodland folk draw near, but there was no sign of a search party throughout the night. Long before the dawn, Elladan and the child were gone.

Haldir waited there a ten-day, but only the dense and uneasy silence of Fangorn kept watch with him. There was no call from Elladan, no sounds of confrontation. He retraced his path and came again to the borders of his homeland where Celeborn was waiting with a second urgent commission for his most trusted confidant. The March Warden rested but a day there at the border outpost and then took a new course, never seeing the golden light of the Mallyrn leaves but in a fleeting glimpse back as he departed.

  


####  _Imladris ~ 2917_

"My question is why this state of affairs persists," Legolas said, a distinct note of disdain coating the words, his eyes scanning the map laid before him keenly. No voice responded to this faintly veiled challenge, but he could feel the hostility in the room increase tenfold. He smiled; the man was verily steaming. He turned his eyes to Arador directly. "There is no centralised and organised opposition, according to these reports and notations. What say you, Dúnedan?"

Arador's effort to withhold a biting retort was visible. He just managed it by recalling to mind that this person was to be the source of the funds his campaign required. He inhaled and exhaled a calming breath. "No, since the battle at Carn Dûm and the defeat of the Witch King, no new definitive leader has taken his place."

"Then, it is merely a series of wandering and loosely confederated raiding parties that plague this land."

"Aye, the wandering part is the problem here," interposed Elrohir. "The Rangers are few in number and this is what gives these bands of marauders their advantage. They move swiftly from place to place and too often when we arrive it is to where they have already been rather than where they would strike next."

"So I see," Legolas nodded, glancing at Elladan, who remained in the background, permitting this discussion to continue without his input. Privately, after that uncomfortable meeting with Elrond, he had stated his objections to his mate's involvement in the extended patrols, but Legolas had halted the debate utterly by accusing him of trying to renege on their pact. The argument had been bitter, indeed, but despite their harsh words then Elladan's eyes told him now that he, too, was suspicious of this sudden summit. "Yet, surely this can be rectified. They are not exactly the most intelligent of adversaries, driven by base needs only. As such, they can be tempted into error and easily entrapped."

"We have tried that," snapped Arador. "They are smart enough to comprehend an ambuscade and assiduously avoid any we have made."

"That speaks to another problem entirely," Legolas stood from his leaning position over the table to confront the man, wondering if he could really be so dense. Elros' blood seemed thin in this heir. "Is this why Lord Elrond has not undertaken a serious campaign to resolve the issue and establish peace?"

"Adar has no desire to enfold the lands of Eriador within his governance," Elladan said, shaking his head. He leaned against the back of a chair casually, arms folded loosely before him. "He is waiting in Middle-earth only for the promised heir of Elendil to be born, a man who will take on the next step in human-kind's evolution as the proper stewards of Arda. Then, he will sail for Aman, and his departure will spur all the remainder of elven-kind to do the same."

"Oh? I have not heard of plans for this exodus before," Legolas sniped, knowing full well no one in the west ever thought about what the Wood Elves were planning to do; no more did they care.

"As to this other problem, are you talking about treachery?" Elrohir directed the discussion back to the topic at hand. "If so, you are mistaken. The Rangers are uniform in their loyalty to the peace and prosperity of Eriador, Legolas."

"I do not say they are not," Legolas insisted, "but not everyone in this wide landscape is necessarily a friend of the Rangers, though they may look to be." He turned back to Arador. "Some you count as allies are in fact betraying you. This should be obvious."

"Nay, we take precautions against it," the man shook his head, sensitive on the subject for he had argued with his son over it on more than one occasion. He cut a sidelong look at Elrohir. "However, it is best to speak frankly, for you have addressed a concern that must be faced openly. It is true Lord Elrond has no desire to rule my people for reasons I leave to his sons to elaborate; it is equally true he does not believe I am this promised leader for which he waits so patiently. He has no confidence in me and will not render greater help than he now provides."

"Which is confined to counsel, whether asked or not, and limited provisioning that excludes warriors, weapons, and the funds to secure those for yourself," Legolas jibed, grinning smugly as the man reacted to his blunt restatement. "That is why you are speaking with me now, is it not?"

"Yes. I would have this kingdom healed and see my son enthroned at Anuminas before I die. As it stands, I will see only battle upon a destitute region of the world that ought to be the centre of culture, freedom, and wisdom for all men."

"You expect to die in battle?" Legolas viewed him more seriously and found the man's grim demeanour not unlike his own in this respect. "So it is for my people, though we were not made to experience death. The life span of a Wood Elf is significantly shorter than that of any other edhel in any other realm. In my generation, no fewer than a fourth have been killed in the continuous war against the Shadow and its servants, and while that is not a great number, neither are there many in this generation."

"A fourth!" Arador exclaimed, shocked, for he had never imagined things were this bad in Mirkwood, though the rumours of the troubles there reached his ears.

"Truly?" Elrohir asked, surprised the Wood Elf would admit such a fact.

"Aye." Legolas sighed and turned back to gaze upon the map.

"Yet in the battle I witnessed and the gathering afterward, the sylvans were many," Elladan contradicted him, perplexed.

"Since then, things have grown worse," Legolas said quietly. "More sylvans are deserting the forest to sail than ever in our history. They have given up. Those who remain are refraining from reproducing until the evil is driven out." He stopped, just catching himself before admitting what would surely be perceived as weakness by this man. It was not for outsiders to know that among his contemporaries who did conceive, the Wood Elves were afflicted with a high proportion of still births and miscarriages. "Our numbers are still great, but shrinking with every circle of the sun."

Silence followed upon his words and he was keenly aware of Elladan's presence, his compassionate love extending across the divide between them. It was a much appreciated comfort, one he had never known before, and he was glad after all that he was bound and mated. It would be hard now to return to his former status of isolation and solitary suffering, and suddenly he perceived what a burden his father carried, having lost this sense of solace and abiding love, regardless the disagreements he recalled between his parents. _It is the same for me; Elladan and I do not have much common ground, but the bond holds true._ He turned spontaneously to Elladan and reached out, smiling as his hand was instantly clasped tight and those grey eyes regarded him with what he could only describe as indulgent pride.

"Come, let us adjourn to a more comfortable location for the rest of the discussion."

It was Elrohir who spoke, his tone felicitous and inviting. He led the way, exiting the dining room turned war room and opening the door to a sumptuous parlour furnished in sofas and lounges and deep, soft arm chairs, all upholstered in supple chestnut-coloured leather. He indicated the sofa for his brother and law-brother, left Arador to choose for himself, and moved to a broad sideboard where an assortment of wines and spirits resided in a collection of artfully crafted decanters and bottles of crystal and tinted glass. He chose a Dorwinion wine in Legolas' honour and carried both the goblets and the decanter on a tray which he set upon a low table between the seating. He elected to sit beside Legolas on the sofa and handed him a goblet, smiling.

They were not holding this conference in the Last Homely House, of course, for word of it would reach Elrond and he would in no wise approve of the plans being hatched between the four of them. Everyone in the valley knew of his vision now and viewed Legolas as the harbinger of some great evil about to befall their Lord and his family. This had not helped Legolas' adjustment to life in a new country, which had been Elrohir's intent when he let the news slip out. He did not want the Wood Elf to feel comfortable in Imladris nor to trust and confide in Elrond, despite the healer's efforts to show him kindness and win his friendship. Legolas remained suspicious, partly due to his nature and partly due to Elrohir's off-hand remark that the Lord of the vale could not help but be reticent toward the source of such potential misery. His courtesy and cordial words, he intimated, were those demanded by the rules of polite society rather than genuine expressions of respect.

"Now then, time to advance this negotiation," Elrohir said, noting the uneasy way Legolas shifted closer to his brother and away from him. He smiled anyway, just letting his eyes glance upon the faintly flushed cheeks to betray knowledge of the reaction to his presence so near. "We would like to help Arador and the Rangers realise his dream of a united and peaceful kingdom of men, its capitol to be Anuminas rebuilt. Obviously, we cannot go to Adar with such plans, as he would not approve and would instead take actions to prohibit our interference, as he would name it."

"Still, I do not quite understand his reluctance to act," Legolas said, forcing himself to remain calm despite the unsettling proximity of his mate's twin. He had not tasted the wine and leaned forward to set his glass upon the tray. He sat back and recollected Elladan's hand, sidling snugly against his side and shoulder as closely as he dared without causing a stir. A faint sniff drew his eye to Arador, who did not hide his disapprobation very well.

"It is the same reason he gave for refusing to journey to your homeland. He would reveal the location of Imladris to the Enemy if he leads out troops to war openly," explained Elladan, giving the elegant fingers curled round his a firm squeeze. He knew Elrohir was deliberately trying to aggravate Legolas by choosing the sofa and felt the best way to combat the problem was to ignore such childish behaviour. The problem they were discussing was much too serious to permit any petty troubles between them to escalate. "The one thing he promised our citizens was that we would go to war no more, but remain a land of peace and protection for those of us who choose to stay in Middle-earth. He dare not go forth with Vilya lest the Enemy manage to slay him and steal it. Such a ring is nearly as potent as the one into which Sauron poured so much of his strength, and holding it would give Shadow a malevolent substance we would be hard pressed to combat, much less defeat."

"So we have long thought in Greenwood," Legolas nodded, "and wonder why, then, this ring is not destroyed? Surely the power in it would revert to enrich the might of all elf-kind."

"We cannot be certain that is what would happen if it, or any of them, were unmade," Elrohir cautioned. "In truth, we do not know how Celebrimbor managed to encompass so much of the Music within the three rings, but we know Vilya represents the pinnacle of his art. Not since Feanor has such craft evolved among our people, and It would be something akin to a shame to ruin such an achievement."

"That has a familiar sound," Legolas murmured. "For cause of the effort employed to perfect artistry, great sorrow was introduced among elf-kind that haunts your family to this day. Oh yes, we know the stories of the Silmarili even in Greenwood, and the story arrived before my grandfather," he addressed Elrohir's surprised expression. "Now you say the same that was said then: it is better to preserve the result of one person's skill than to permit the essence of the object to be released for the benefit of all peoples."

"What impertinence!" Elrohir barked, standing and glaring down upon the Wood Elf. He was about to say more but a soft cough directed his eye to Arador, whose dour frown reminded him of their real purpose in holding this meeting. He swallowed back his displeasure and moved away, strolling the room's perimeter to dissipate his anger.

"That's a charge I've heard often enough," Legolas answered the outburst amiably, mildly pleased to have got under the volatile twin's skin. "It may even be true, but that does not change the validity of the observation."

"Valid or not, it is a point which does not aid our discussion," Arador complained. "Can we not move to some real resolution of the Eriador problem? We cannot expect Elrond's help, especially any use of the ring he bears, and so it is purposeless to mention it."

"Not entirely, for I believe Legolas is really considering what Adar may do once he learns of the army we plan to develop," Elladan said.

"Exactly so," Legolas confirmed.

"There is little he can do," assured Elrohir. "Sternly suggest we desist and leave the affairs of men to the men who must endure the consequences such actions incite? I do not think it would move me to stop, for he has tried that before and yet we continue our quest."

"Nor is he likely to denounce any who choose to join us," Elladan considered. "He may secretly approve, though his burden as a ring-bearer demands opposition."

"I should hope he would not hinder us," groused Arador. "What would have become of Elrond and Imladris had not my ancestor sent aid and defence to Eriador in the last Age? We would not be having this talk, for you two would not be here."

"Perhaps so," Elrohir said, "and we feel strongly that debt," yet he shrugged as though it was inconsequential. "This is one reason we hope to assist you now. Another is that doing so will achieve much toward satisfying our quest, and the third is that we would like Adar to have the rest he deserves in Aman. He has more than done his part and it is time he sailed, taking Vilya with him, there to be reunited with our Naneth." He returned to the group and took a seat in one of the arm chairs this time.

"I am not satisfied," Legolas announced. "The idea of an alliance is appealing, for my homeland is direly beset and my Adar is hard pressed to hold the Shadow back. He cannot stand alone indefinitely and in truth we are as near to being besieged as it is possible to be in a woodland realm. Help cannot reach us from Lorien, for Galadriel feels the same about her ring as Elrond does about his. Celeborn has not enough forces to spare any to aid his kinsman, though I know he wishes it were otherwise. He and Adar have spoken at length about a solution, for the Dark Tower threatens the Golden Wood also, but nothing constructive has resulted.

"This army of men you propose, Arador, must be massive, well armed, and well trained in order to be effective. That can be done; it is not my chief concern. What worries me is the great difference between fighting here in an open land and fighting beneath the close and crowded cover of the forest. Men cannot take to the trees as we can do. Casualties will be high; what cause can inspire men to fight in such a daunting arena? Gold is not incentive enough for the work I foresee in bringing that tower down. I understand they will readily risk life and limb for lands they will inhabit and peace they will have well-earned, but what purpose can men find in aiding Greenwood?"

"Is not this the purpose of alliance?" asked Arador. "Your assistance now buys our assistance later. In future, both realms will prosper through free trade and commerce across the mountains."

"It seems an inconvenient trade route," drawled Legolas, "and it is a long march to come looking for troubles that are not your own."

"You doubt the honour of my people," Arador said bluntly. He had expected the notion to come up as few among elf-kind saw much value in men since Isildur's fall.

"Not their honour, but their fortitude. Understand me and forgive me for being crude, but with so few years of life to savour even in peaceful times, what reason would a mortal have to aid a foreign land so far removed from home that in his absence the enemy might regain a foothold? These are serious issues that must be plainly addressed, Arador. I cannot commit to a course of action that will not produce the desired result for Greenwood."

"Even with so many years in which to wait for that result?" snapped Arador, displeased with the Wood Elf's evaluation of the character of men. "Our lives may be short but our memories are not. We will not desert just because the way is long, the fighting hard, and the losses high. We will fight for Greenwood if an alliance exists between Arnor and the woodland realm. Are you authorised to enact such a treaty or must the Council convene and your father approve first?" He was hoping this allusion to Legolas' young age and lack of agency might inspire a defensive reaction and push him into agreement. To his chagrin, Legolas laughed, a merry smile adorning his face and brightening the indigo eyes considerably.

"My father rules Greenwood, if that is what you ask," he remarked when his mirth was spent. "He would not be likely to approve any treaty whatsoever between the heirs of Numenor and the elves of the woods. He does not trust men and never converses with the humans dwelling as subjects in his own realm, who fight for him nonetheless because they fight for their own freedom and livelihood under the canopy. And because I do converse with them, and arm them, and train them, and succour them in their grieving, and supply for the sustenance of the villagers struggling to survive in a country perpetually in conflict.

"In short, Adar rules Greenwood and I run the war. He will not like this alliance, but he also dislikes my abrupt departure. If I return with an army and employ it to defeat Dol Guldur and the Necromancer, he will be less likely to banish me for my impertinent attitude and insubordinate actions." He laughed again, catching the quick flush that stained Elrohir's cheeks to have his insult thrown back out into the air as a jest.

"So then, do you propose to sign a treaty of alliance?" Arador was not sure what Legolas' intentions truly were, displeased with his rather cavalier manner. He wondered in his heart of hearts if the young elf was not boasting about his status and if he would be able to lay his hands on the necessary funds without the approval of the woodland king. Furthermore, this brief mention of banishment raised concerns about Thranduil's likely reaction to the approach of an army of men. _Who would banish his own son? What might such a person do to that son's companions in arms?_

"I do. We will form a military alliance, Arador. I will help you build this army and train it, and with it I will assist you in clearing these lands of evil. In return, this same army must follow me over Hithaeglir and down Nan Anduin to lay siege to Dol Guldur until it is defeated and utterly broken. Its master I will manage myself. After this, the treaty will dissolve unless my father wishes to enact a new one of trade and commerce. Do not expect any such thing to occur, nor can this army of men expect more from me than what I promise them at the start."

"What will you promise?" Elladan asked quietly, another gentle squeeze offering silent support.

"Little enough," Legolas shrugged, "for what does a Wood Elf possess that men would want? I can promise nothing beyond a bonus in gold and jewels. That and my undying gratitude." His eyes focused on the man. "If the memory of Arador is long, that of Legolas is longer still, and I will not forget this debt, a debt that can be called at any future time should the need of men become great, no matter how dire the quest might be. You may not have Greenwood for your ally very long, but you and all your heirs that follow will have Legolas as your ardent supporter for as long as he breathes."

"Can you ensure our army will be welcomed when the day comes that we must march on the Black Tower?" Arador asked suddenly and was dismayed when Legolas chuckled darkly.

"I sincerely doubt the Necromancer will be glad of the company, but I do not believe that is what you meant." His grin transformed into a flinty mask, sheer determination overprinting his merry mood. "As to my father, he will not order his archers to destroy us as long as he perceives that I am the captain of that army. I will keep him informed and he will aid us, though grudgingly at first. You need not fear."

They were all quiet after this, thinking on the possible scene that might play out on that fateful day, Legolas so lost in it he withdrew his hand from Elladan and nervously, unconsciously bit at the corner of his thumbnail. Elladan sighed and set a consoling hand on his mate's shoulder. They shared a bitter-sweet smile; Thranduil was less likely to be angry about the soldiers than the defiance of his son in bringing home a mate banished from entering Greenwood on pain of imprisonment.

"It is hard for him, now that I am grown up," Legolas said softly, forgetting the others in the room to share this with Elladan. "He depends so upon me, and while I am gone he must take my place. I confess; it worries me terribly, what might happen to him. He is reckless in the extreme, though a courageous fighter."

"He managed to survive the Last Alliance," remarked Elrohir, a thin swath of disdain painting the words.

"Why should he not?" Legolas demanded, standing tall and approaching the younger twin. "Your tone implies he should not have left the battle; do you accuse him of desertion?"

"I did not say so," Elrohir stood also, unwilling to be cowed by this callow youth. "I do not know what name to give the motive that drove him from the field of battle before the Enemy fell."

"Sorrow. Sorrow so deep it robbed him of reason, of hope, of thought, of care, for before his very eyes the war dispatched to Mandos all his living kin by blood save one nephew too young to be in the van," Legolas said seriously, "father, brothers, a sister, nephews and nieces, and a son and granddaughter who were his dearest delights in all the world." Elladan shot up at his side and he had no doubts he was conversing silently with his brother through that uncanny and rather distasteful mental link they shared. "I would ask that you retract such an unworthy inference, or we shall have to settle this in combat, you and I. I will not allow Thranduil to be maligned by those who were not there and do not know; no more can I fail to champion my father in his absence, for he would deal with you himself with pleasure were he here, and perhaps you would not find it so pleasant or easy to speak those oblique indictments to his very face."

"Verily, Elrohir at times allows his tongue too much leeway," Arador announced, rising also. "I am sure he meant nothing impertinent." His exaggerated use of this term drew all eyes to him and he raised his arms in a comic shrug, grinning at them, teeth bared as though to invite a blow. His antic broke the tension and strained smiles adorned the elves' faces as they regarded him.

"I did not," Elrohir admitted, "though I freely concede I was trying to agitate you, Legolas, so to learn how deep was the feeling between you and your adar, for much speculation has been entertained on that point. Forgive my ungracious words; I sincerely retract them." He bowed low, hand over his heart.

"If any wish to know the nature of my relations with my father, it would do better to simply ask me," Legolas said acidly, displeased that his challenge was denied.

"Indeed," Elladan said, carefully extending his arm and just brushing the tips of his fingers against Legolas' back. The Wood Elf jumped and spun about, eyes afire and hands clenching in the absence of weapons to hold. Elladan clasped both forearms and drew his mate closer to him and further from Elrohir. "Do not let this trouble you," he murmured. "Your father's courage is not in question here, no more is yours. Accept his apology and let it go; his opinion is not important." That drew an audible intake of breath from Elrohir.

"I accept the apology," Legolas announced, barely glancing at his mate's brother. It was so disconcerting to have such an antagonist, formed in the very likeness of his beloved Elladan.

"And I accept the terms of alliance," Arador hastened to move the conversation away from dangerous grounds, and extended his hand to Legolas. When it was taken, he gripped the lethal digits hard, feeling the calluses wrought by many years of diligent practice, and pumped the Wood Elf's arms twice to seal their accord.

"My life is yours for the next ten years," advised Legolas seriously. "This pact dissolves under the following conditions: my death, your death, or the realisation of the cause thus enjoined: a free homeland for each of our peoples. At the end of the ten years, or sooner if we re-establish Arnor more speedily than that, the Rangers will accompany me to Dol Guldur and there give battle to the Necromancer. No more than ten years will I demand of your men, even as that is the time I will confer upon them. But my promise is given to you, whatever else may result, and to that I will hold as long as I take breath."

"Nasan!" (So be it!) Elrohir exclaimed and moved closer, quickly covering the joined hands with his own. "Come, Elladan, and make it unanimous," he urged and smiled as his twin did the same, laying his hand over all the others. "We are committed now."

Legolas was the first to disengage, a brief shudder convulsing his shoulders as he did so, and he asked for quill and ink and parchment. The simple treaty was set forth upon one sheet just as he had already spoken it and all four of them signed it. Then he took a second scroll and described a letter to his father demanding monies without naming the reason for his need.

"Will he not wonder at this urgent request and insist upon an explanation?" asked Arador, sceptical and curious.

"He refuses me nothing," answered Legolas, unabashed delight in the remark that was somewhat malicious in caste, "on account of what he once took from me."

Six weeks later, a lone Wood Elf leading two pack horses arrived at the borders of Imladris and there waited patiently, refusing to go across Bruinen, until Legolas came and relieved him of three coffers of gold and gems and mithril.

It was an immense fortune and Arador's eyes glittered more brightly than the precious stones as he looked upon them.

  
The study of the Lord of Imladris had witnessed many a meeting of dire import over the course of its existence, yet few were more pertinent or more compelling than this one proved to be. Erestor sat in his accustomed chair, the plush accommodation his acknowledged favourite and preserved for his use whenever such a conference commenced. In it he seemed as reposed and languid as a lazy cat tucked atop a patch of sunlight on the floor, but his nerves were alight with tingling anticipation and his mind sang with facts and possibilities, exploring all the potential futures and fates about to be decided here. His noble kinsman, often of like attitude, was today severely depressed by the weight of the problem weighing him down and seemed reluctant to have the full list of probabilities expounded by his trusted seneschal, though that was Erestor's chief gift: the accurate and complete description, in minute detail, of what events would arise upon realisation of a given set of circumstances. He inhaled a little more deeply than usual and observed his cousin compassionately.

Elrond was not seated near at hand but stood before his great desk, busying himself sorting through this letter, that document, this map, that treatise. He kept his eyes averted and his head down as his hands worried through the mess, searching for something. _Or nothing._ He was simply dressed in tunic and trousers, the robes of state, the mithril circlet set aside in this private council, glorious ebony mane severely plaited down his back, and his dagger was thrust into the belt round his hips. It was a disconcerting sight, though he rarely left the house unarmed, to see him with it under the roof of his own abode wherein no manner of evil thing had ever passed. _Until now._

"Here it is," the lore-master announced quietly and turned with an old and yellowed, roughly made parchment, much tattered and battered by time and harsh treatment. "It is composed in Adunaic and was penned in haste, sealed with the tallow of a candle on the field of battle." He raised it, met Erestor's eyes, and read from it: "Reporting in urgency and under great duress, beset by foes on north and west flanks, soldiers in terror of this mighty Lord who rides amid a writhing tide of animal-men, who have no language and barely hold thoughts above that of the wolf or the hind. Yet they are numberless and fierce and fight for this Lord with such animosity that one wonders at the source of it, for how can they fathom such a being? He has sent to me terms for my surrender and the name he signs is Îbal III, while the seal is decidedly evil, being the impression formed by a massive oval jewel within which is set another, so giving the appearance of an open and staring eye." Elrond put the document down carefully, watching Erestor's face for signs of its effect upon him, but as always the seneschal remained inscrutable as he considered the information.

"You take this jewel to be the very one set within the ring Legolas has on his person?" he asked, assuming this to be so, and was thus prepared for the solemn nod Elrond tendered. Erestor sighed and rubbed his fingers against his temples as though a pain had gathered there to trouble him. "That is unfortunate if it is true. Of course, Îbal III can only be the descendant of Ulbar of Emerië. No other would choose such an infamous name."

"A person learned in the histories desiring to make a name for himself would do so," this reply came not from Elrond but from the other participant in the congress: Glorfindel. The Lord of the Golden Flower sat easily in a straight-backed chair, one leg crossed over the other so that its ankle rested propped atop the other knee. He made a dismissive motion with his hand on observing both his colleagues incredulous expressions. "Of course, that is unlikely to have occurred unless such a person was indeed a descendent of that accursed line."

"Agreed," nodded Elrond, scowling, "and so the trouble now comes to the fore. If Legolas truly has destroyed this person's debased incarnation as a Wraith, and I do not know how he could come into possession of the ring otherwise, then that ring will be longing for a new owner."

"The young fool!" exclaimed Glorfindel and uncrossed his legs, landing the booted foot soundly on the floor boards as he leaned forward. "What possessed him to do such a thing? What can be in his mind to keep such a token? He is now a target, large and bold as Ithil but not so out of reach as he appears to think."

"He has a rather inflated sense of his skill, bolstered by this unthinkable victory," Erestor commented, but his kinsman was shaking his head.

"Nay, there is nothing about his assessment of his ability that is exaggerated. He is as good as he claims; in fact, better. I have had word from Celeborn about him and the reports are of exceptional skill and unparalleled daring. He is fierce and fearless and will chance anything. The sylvan folk have a name or two for their prince: Lepem Andâ (Long Fingers) Idê Varasâ (Burning Heart), Kundû Gajar (Prince Terrible), and Belekwingâ (Great-bow) among them." This list produced a guffaw from the Balrog-slayer.

"Well, we've heard Strong-bow is claimed in his lineage, so Great-bow seems reasonable," he chuckled, rubbing his hands together in glee. "There is more to this young forest dweller than first sight hints."

"Perhaps, but considering his lineage," Erestor began, his tone haughty and disparaging, "one must conclude madness as one of his most prominent traits, that coupled with the unfortunate early influences of Shadow upon his life."

"Unfortunate is a gross underestimate of his ill-fate thus far," Elrond chided, frowning, and turned his displeasure upon Glorfindel as well. "There is nothing hidden in him; that is part of the problem. It is all there out on the surface for anyone to perceive who cares to perceive, and it is devastating to behold even when he locks the pain away behind that occult mask of insufferable indifference. I think the most accurate appellation is Prince Terrible. His people fear him; his own father fears him. What manner of existence is this? What sort of pressure does that exert upon a young mind?"

"Aye, he believes it all," Glorfindel glowered, chagrined to have made merry over the situation and Legolas' unspeakable torments. "Ai! So young to have seen such things and to know such sorrow."

"And such power, as he will now see it," Elrond concurred, adding his own slant to the image they were developing of his son's eternal mate. "He will dare anything and fully expects to succeed, even if he dies in the endeavour."

"That is contradictory," Erestor pointed out. "He cannot do both."

"Of course he can," Elrond argued. "As for all we know, he may think his death is destined once he achieves this great task he has shouldered."

"Which is purely impossible," Glorfindel shook his head and answered Elrond's questioning glance immediately. "I don't believe he can break down Dol Guldur, that in itself is a hopeless plan, but this notion of restoring his mother's soul to light is surely an indication that Erestor is not entirely wrong in his assessment."

"Yes, it must be faced frankly, Elrond," Erestor returned to the topic, minus his condescending attitude. "It runs deep in that bloodline; Oropher was hardly the first example, merely the most current one to which we've been personally exposed. Beleg himself was rather extreme according to the histories, as was Denwë. Of Thranduil, who can even guess? He refuses to acknowledge the rest of the world and lives in a fog of dreams."

"Perhaps, or perhaps there is something influencing him externally." Elrond made a noise in his throat and worked his patrician features into an even darker display of displeasure, turning away as he pursed his lips, clasped his hands behind him, and strolled to the open window to stare upon the lovely grounds of his estate. Why must this trouble come upon them now? Why must Elladan be dragged into it? Unconsciously, he worried the ring on his finger that few could see but many felt.

"What do you mean?" Glorfindel and Erestor shared uneasy surprise at this behaviour. "Have you had news of him, too, from his kinsman in the Golden Wood?"

"Not from Celeborn, but his wife, Galadriel."

"Nay, Thranduil would have nothing to do with anyone of that line," argued Erestor. "He hates even the thought of her."

"I do not dispute it," Elrond turned to regard them, his manner hesitant as though he were considering whether or not to speak. Being that he had tantalised them with this hint, he saw no course save to continue, and sighed. "She indicates that she cannot see what passes in the Woodland Realm, nor perceive any of its principals in her far-sight or in the Mirror."

"Extraordinary!" Glorfindel breathed, shaking his head. "I would not have believed sylvan magic to be so strong as that."

"It isn't, can't be." Erestor was honestly disturbed by this idea of the elven King having the ability to shield himself so thoroughly, and suspected what Elrond was implying. "You cannot imagine has he found it?"

"Galadriel thinks not," Elrond intoned seriously, "but even so, something stands between her sight and Greenwood."

"Of course, it is Dol Guldur," insisted Glorfindel. "You do not know Thranduil if you consider he would do what you imply."

"I am not assured by your words, for even if that is true it does not eliminate the problem," Elrond answered him. "Galadriel fears that what is hidden in the tower owns a far greater power than any of us first deemed likely. She does not believe it is merely a Wraith with which we must contend. Mithrandir agrees with her."

That closed every mouth, for not one of them would speak the name that sprang into their minds. Morose and gloomy, they considered this notion.

"If this is true, Thranduil and Greenwood are in dire straights," Erestor stated the obvious and earned a wry smirk from his kinsman.

"Indeed," said Elrond. "The prince's account of daily life there was most disheartening. Yet I am not convinced, especially after Legolas' little demonstration, that what Thranduil hides beneath his trees is not that dread article forged in secret, filled with the most potent aspects of the Enemy's might, and then lost on the borders of the woodland realm. He would be severely tempted to seek it and to use it, hoping to undo the past, to change what has already come to be, to bring back his deceased wife and reclaim the lost innocence of his last child." Elrond expounded his view with no small amount of tribulation, for none could seriously effect such a reversal of Vairë's work, not even with Sauron's ring in his keeping. As such, the theory fortified Erestor's analysis of insanity, and this was a horrific conclusion to be forced to accept. A mad elf with a ring of power, in fact The ring of power, was no small problem to manage. His words aroused a low whistle from the Balrog-slayer and a sharp bark of a curse from Erestor. The Lord of the Vale smiled at him sadly. "Thus, I deem there is some element of truth in your evaluation."

"More's the pity," Glorfindel mourned. "Imagine growing up in the shadow of that." They were all quiet a time as they ruminated on these ideas and then he stood, stretching his back before strolling to join Elrond by the window. "Legolas is all alone."

"Not anymore," Elrond reminded him archly. "Now he's got Elladan."

Uncomfortable silence greeted this complaint and the two advisors again traded knowing looks. Elrond saw and propped his hands on his hips, passing his reproving countenance between them. "Well? You are here to advise; do so."

Glorfindel shook his head, folded his arms over his chest. "You have to be aware of the dissension between them," he said honestly. "They may be attracted to one another, but they are generally quite at odds and have opposing ideas of what to do with life."

"Add to that the strong will of each and you've an explosive combination," Erestor added. "I don't see how they can reconcile these differences, regardless the incredible force of history upon them."

"You discount the exchange of light," Elrond disagreed with them. "That is a link that cannot be broken."

"If so, it is unfortunate for them both, for I do not believe either finds much happiness in the reality of the other's personality," Erestor countered.

"The quiet between them that we are all enjoying so thoroughly just now is but a symptom of the pending eruption of fresh hostilities in the near future," Glorfindel elaborated.

"Manwë's Breath, they quarrelled on their bonding night."

"It is hopeless and will lead only to heartache for them both. You must see it has done so already."

"Which, if you will recall, I warned you about that very first night," Erestor concluded this thorough and dual denouncing of the match. Now it had all been said but one thing, and Glorfindel deigned to speak it:

"I think it might be wise to try to communicate with someone in the Woodland Realm. Perhaps if you send word to Celeborn, he can in turn make contact with Thranduil. Legolas needs to go home."

Elrond sat down at his desk, depressed beyond words, but glad of this counsel for it eased his conscience somewhat. It felt wrong to go behind the lovers' backs and send for Thranduil to come and fetch his young son home like an errant child. Doing so diminished not only Legolas but Elladan as well, yet he couldn't deny his eldest was behaving with an alarming lack of wisdom, seemingly trying to drive Legolas away. He had never treated with any of his previous lovers in this belligerent manner, as though he were angry with Legolas, as though he had been betrayed somehow and now wanted his revenge for it. It was such a black thought that Elrond jerked in his chair; Elladan was not vindictive by nature.

Added to all this, he was not sure Thranduil would come. He never acknowledged any communications and had left his dark woods only once since the last Age: to chase down Elladan and recover his kidnapped child. What it might mean if he did come Elrond really had difficulty making himself consider, and he glanced at Erestor unhappily. This was the kind of thing he counted on his kinsman to evaluate, and given the seneschal's deep dislike of all things sylvan and everything to do with Thranduil in particular, that he had not advised against it was terribly disturbing. It meant the consequences of not getting rid of Legolas were far worse than those pursuant to Thranduil's temporary sojourn in Imladris.

 _The mad king and his mad son might end up killing each other in my very house._ Elrond's brows rose slightly and he again looked upon Erestor; perhaps that was his hope.

None of his options were very palatable, but he could not refuse to act. With a heavy heart, he found he had taken up a quill and was in the act of shoving the mass of scattered documents out of the way to clear a writing surface.

Even as he penned the formal greeting to his law-father, a commotion reached them from near at hand: feet beating hastily down the corridor and then rumbling down the stairway, his elder son's pleading tones for Legolas to stop, sudden quiet and then a shouted "Go then, and keep on going!"

  
"I want you to wear a ring."

"Have I given you cause to think I would refuse to do so?"

"Yes. You have not even looked at the ones I brought with me."

"Given the talisman you carry around in that pocket, how can you wonder at it?" Elladan didn't really worry over the nature of the rings themselves; it was the idea of Legolas demanding he wear one at which he balked. He disliked the domineering side of his mate's personality. _And to make that flippant demand in front of Adar was mortifying._ Worst of all, Elrohir had learned of it somehow and oh! how he had taken joy in his mockery and taunting scorn!

"You seriously fear I would give something to you that harbours evil?" Legolas could hardly believe he was hearing this. The hurt was severe and he actually staggered under its impact, forced to grip the back of a chair to steady himself. His ears were ringing and he could hear the rapid staccato of his heart beat, but shied from Elladan's hurried approach. "Baw!" (Don't!) he shouted, shocked to hear how low and quavering the sound came out.

"Legolas, I did not mean that." Elladan hovered near, afraid to touch him, alarmed by this severe reaction.

Legolas ignored him, concentrating on staying upright and breathing. He found his composure and his pride and raised the shield of untouchable imperfection, a cloak of dread majesty clothing a form dangerous and fey, and swept from the apartment and the house, deaf and blind to Elladan's pleading presence following after, confident he would be delivered of the tagalong as soon as the more public areas of the abode were reached, and this proved true. He strode out through the great front door and across the wide, cool veranda unchallenged and alone, and this smote his very soul such a wound he nearly broke into a run. He managed not to do so and stalked with regal grace through the grounds, disappearing into the gardens and then the countryside and then the surrounding wilds until he reached Ross Fân rushing through its steep and narrow bed to plunge gently, slowly over the edge of a crevasse, creating a delicate cascade for which it was named, droplets of fluid blowing in a perpetual breeze to water the meadows below in a soft, continuous rain.

It was a picturesque site and he had not been to this place before. There he stopped, passage blocked by the chasm, and sat upon the brink, finding he was soaked with sweat and shaking. He rubbed his hands against his arms to warm them and thought he might never go back to that house again. He thought on where he might go and knew he could never return home to Greenwood unless it was to defeat the Necromancer, and he could not do that alone. It occurred to him now that he had always been alone, though he had never realised it until this day. He had no siblings, no peers, no friends; only warriors under his command who once had nearly worshiped him. _And now? They fear me._ That was his Adar's doing. Everything, in fact, was Thranduil's fault, but what did it matter now? He couldn't think how to undo the errors.

 _Lorien perhaps._ But he shook his head even as he considered it; that would place Lord Celeborn in an untenable position with Thranduil, and he doubted the Lady of Light would welcome him. _They are all Elladan's people there._

Mithlond was out of the question; it was a port with but a single destination and he had no desire to confront the Powers in their exalted realm of peace and plenty. He was exiled, alone. The grand goal of freeing his people from the tyranny of the tower appeared a foolish and childish fantasy. His guilt-laden promise to redeem his naneth nothing but an irrational scheme born of grief and rage, unattainable and absurd. His unfailing belief in the power of the bond betwixt him and Elladan could not be defended any longer. Obviously, he had simply wished it so, even as his father so ofter chided him. His mind played back for him Elladan's words, a profound profession of faith and hope that had called him back and held him here all this time, through all this misery, never imagining Elladan was already bound to another long before those words were whispered in his ear. _Why did he tell me those lies?_

There was no answer forthcoming and the more he thought on it the greater the yawning pit of anguish grew, like a sinkhole opening beneath his feet, ready to swallow and consume him; he might as well never have been at all, just like his mother. He thought how cool the water would be against his burning shame and humiliation. The next instant he leaped into the empty space and its cloud of mist, plummeting silently into the stream where the current battered him against rocks and boulders and pushed him down into a fathomless pool. It was quiet in there and he drifted, weightless and thoughtless beneath the brilliant light swirling just under the surface.

He came to his senses on the damp and springy turf of the marshy grounds, startled to be coughing up water and struggling for air.

"Elbereth! By all the Valar what was in your mind? Are you mad, indeed?" This frantic and biting rebuke assailed his ears in tones of angry fear and he tried to focus his eyes on the speaker, thinking he knew the voice but confused by the fury in his head, which was now pounding with every pulse of his heart.

"Hit a rock," he mumbled. He tried to sit and discovered a firm weight pushing him down.

"What? Be still! I think you must have been thrown head first against the rocks and rendered senseless."

"'swhat I said," he groaned, fingers fluttering around the locus of the hammering in his scull, afraid to touch it.

"I'm not any sort of healer; don't have the stomach for it, nestegi! (fuck!) What am I to do? I daren't leave you here and go for aid, yet if I wait you might die of a brain haemorrhage or something. A nice trick to play on me, Wood Elf!"

"AI! stop yelling! Ego!" (Be gone!) Legolas covered his ears and shut his eyes tight, concentrated on breathing in a deep, regular rhythm, willed himself to evaluate the injury and determine its severity. He grunted; nothing more than a mild concussion. "All this fuss!" he fumed, opening his eyes to train a visual rebuke upon his rescuer, and they popped wide in astonishment as a startled "Oh!" fled his lips.

"Yes, it's me. I was following you and a good thing, too. What a monstrous thing to do!" Elrohir shielded his upset and fear under wrath and indignation. "I am soaked to the skin! What if I had come a moment later and missed that spectacular dive from the cliff? Do you imagine I would want to be the one to discover your body floating in the stream, to be the one lugging your inert and lifeless carcass home to Elladan?"

Legolas could not formulate any answers to these queries, so filled with a disturbing confluence of emotions that he couldn't really function. Anger, sorrow, gratitude, remorse, and guilt all vied for the bulk of his brain's momentarily limited capacity. He found it easier to lie there and shut his eyes again, pretend he had not seen that face and those eyes, the saturated locks dripping like a vat of ink pouring over him. The heavy hair was cold where it touched him and he shivered, a low moan escaping, mournful and bereft like a child about to break into wailing and tears. His heart seized in his breast; he mustn't betray his feelings this way, especially in front of him. It was too late, of course, and he knew that, too. "Just go away; I am not seriously injured. You need not stay."

"I'm not going anywhere," Elrohir answered and even he was surprised by the gentle compassion in his voice. He frowned for his own benefit, since Legolas was not looking at him, and cleared his throat. "I'm sorry I yelled; didn't mean anything by it. I've just never witnessed such a thing and I had no means to compass it."

They remained silent a long time then, just the soporific noise of the water falling to fill the awkward space between them, falling eternally from the narrow cleft into the small, round pool. The mist washed over them and drifted about in ephemeral clouds that gave the place an ethereal and removed atmosphere, isolated from all the world in a world unto themselves. They might be anywhere but Rivendell, yet only in Imladris could such a place be found. Time passed; Anor dropped a little in the heavens and her light danced across the veil in bright bars of coloured light. It was alarmingly beautiful and Legolas caught his breath, pushed carefully up onto his elbows to see it better, for he had opened his eyes just at that moment.

"It's incredible!" he whispered.

"Yes, it's fairly good," agreed Elrohir nonchalantly, "but there's much a better one. My Nana named it Lanthir Fân because there are always lovely ribbons strung through the cascading flood. I can show you that one, if you like." He discovered Legolas looking at him, the facial muscles arranged to produce a mixture of suspicion and misery; he had to disengage from it.

"Why did you follow me?" Legolas demanded, sitting up slowly and trying to get free of the hand that aided him without being obvious about it.

"Just stop it and let me help!" Elrohir snapped. "I will not harm you, Legolas. What is this aversion to my presence? It is most insulting."

"Do not pretend to be innocent," Legolas shot back. "Your hatred is a palpable thing. I know all; we cannot be friends and this sham of accord is exhausting to maintain. You would prefer me dead and so why don't you simply admit the truth? There is no other to hear it save myself, and I already know it."

"If I wished that, I need have done nothing just now," Elrohir replied, but his temper was calmed by these blunt accusations and he was shamed by the truth in them.

"Nonsense," Legolas muttered, but he shivered again, feeling anew his despair over Elladan's words.

"Why?" Elrohir asked quietly, not daring to look at him for fear he might get up and bolt. Legolas was emitting such a crushing wave of hopelessness he could hardly stand it and made a show of taking off his boots and dumping the water out of them. Legolas was watching him covertly and suddenly copied his actions until both sat discalced, hose discarded in shrivelled, saturated clumps like gigantic earthworms driven from their subterranean tunnels by a deluge.

"I don't know; it wasn't planned. The water looked cool," Legolas shrugged.

"That is no answer."

"There are too many; just choose whatever one suits you!" he barked, flashing a contrary glare at the younger twin's bewildered face.

More silence, then, tense and laced with such a longing to make this unseemly encounter end, to make it never to have happened in the first place.

"It is you who does not answer," charged Legolas abruptly and it roused Elrohir from his thoughts with a jolt. The look he trained on the Wood Elf's countenance was peculiar, partly exasperation, mostly embarrassment.

"All right, fairly spoken. I followed because I saw you leave the house and that Elladan came after, angry and upset. If you must know, I came out here to confront you about it." _I came to cast salt in the wound, to make it a thousand times worse._

"No, that's not it," Legolas shook his head, a rueful smile upon his lips. "And Elladan is not here; you are." There was sufficient bitterness in that phrase to remove all doubt and internally he berated himself; why had he revealed this ugly truth to Elrohir? _Probably because he already knows._

The muted rumble of the falls filled the air and drowned out everything but their circling thoughts. They both knew the reason Elrohir had followed instead of his brother. Could either one speak it? It seemed not.

"I won't  I won't plague you anymore, Legolas," Elrohir offered in halting cadence, glancing to see what effect this might produce, but Legolas avoided his eyes.

"You think as he does," he intoned sourly, raising such a murderous and wounded visage that Elrohir was stunned and could only shake his head in negation, of what he could not imagine, not yet, not then. "Yes! Do not deny it!" Legolas scrambled to his feet. "You are both wrong about me!" he shouted and tore away over the marshy ferns, boots and socks forgot in his desperate desire to get away.

He arrived at the Last Homely House the next morn dirty and dishevelled, garments wrinkled and stained and torn, hair unbrushed and knotted, but aloof and arrogant nonetheless, his elvish light a brittle, brilliant barrier between him and the whole world. His demeanour was courteous and courtly and he smiled on Elrond, a coldly soul-shuddering smile that never thawed the icy indifference that filled his disdainful eyes, and sidestepped every question put to him. He bathed and changed and appeared at the noon meal but would not eat. He ignored Elladan's attempts at apology, tossed the box of rings he'd brought into the refuse bin, and pretended not to notice when Lord Elrond fished them out, pained and perplexed, and presented them to his son. Legolas selected a chair on the veranda and sat, remaining there motionless and silent all the remainder of the day.

While he lounged thus a ring was chosen and worn, but he said he cared not anymore, that it meant nothing at all, really. He roused himself and announced he was moving into one of the guest rooms on the first floor of the house. He bolted his door when the stars appeared and he retired.

This initiated a new phase in his life in Imladris. During the day he prowled the wilds or practiced his archery; throughout the night his soft step could be heard pacing the bedchamber over and over until dawn, when he left before breaking fast with the household. He interacted with no one, avoiding all company, and went about in solitary oblivion, a golden ghost whose presence was never seen but ever felt. Elladan made no effort to alter the circumstances and seemed relieved not to need to speak to him. He spent his time with his brother as had been their habit of old. It seemed the bond was broken and everyone wondered what held Legolas there. For ten days this impasse persisted, and then Elrond decided he must intervene and called his son to his study.

"I know exactly what this is about," the lore-master interrupted Elladan's vague half-lies. "He wanted you to wear a ring because he is insecure about the fullness of your heart. You stupidly refused; why? Are you trying to dissolve the bond between you? If so, this is a cruel way to handle it, Elladan. If you feel nothing for him, if your every need has been fulfilled, then do what is decent and say so. Send him away before he can bear it no more. He is seasoned to withstand much grief, but I fear he is beyond his limits."

"Nay, you don't see it," Elladan was exasperated. How could he speak the real reason? Legolas needed a means to know with whom he was coupling; that's what prompted all this about rings, because he could not tell his mate from his mate's twin. That stung, for shouldn't his chosen spouse be able to distinguish between them? Was he not more than Elrohir's double? Yet, for all this was a convenient thing to be angry about, it hid the deeper fact: Legolas feared to be seduced into unfaithfulness and could not admit the real trouble was his own attraction to both the sons of Elrond. It was easier to paint Elrohir as the culprit than accept responsibility for his own latent desires.

And all of that was just another layer of self-deception. Elladan could not own his resentment of the Wood Elf for daring to judge him, for scorning and belittling him before others, especially his father, for producing such an immediate reaction of disgust and revulsion to the veiled notion of love shared equally between the brothers, for accusing him of infidelity and deceit, for making it clear he could never, ever have Elrohir in that way again, and finally for his guilt over all of it. It was easier to blame Legolas than accept responsibility for his own repressed desires.

"Don't I? You punish him by denying him the one security he needs, offended to learn that he needs it, and now the two of you are locked in this absurd contest to see which one will blink first and beg forgiveness. He is young and has not had the benefit of a peaceful realm in which to find his way to maturity, a devoted family ensuring the needs of body and soul are amply met, as have you. His reaction is understandable and his anguish quite real. What is your excuse? I tell you seriously, Elladan, you will break him thusly. Consider what he has endured!"

Elladan paled, for this was as succinct a statement of the facts as any he could produce, and he wondered miserably if his father knew the rest of it after all. _He can't know; surely he would have said something, done something before now._

"Did you hear me?" demanded Elrond, troubled by his son's strangely withdrawn demeanour.

"Aye, Adar. I will mend things," Elladan hastily capitulated, eager to quit the room before more revelations occurred.

Elrond watched him go, displeased with the response his warnings met. Elladan seemed more remote than ever, hardly registering the seriousness of the case from Legolas' point of view. Elladan could be selfish, but this was more than that. He was hiding something. _Ai Valar! What more can there be to darken their horizon?_ Was it another lover? Someone from the many among his past exploits with whom he had never completely broken? Elrond dearly wished he had not bungled that initial meeting with Legolas, and the second, for the prince was suspicious of him now and would not trust him enough to open up. _He doesn't trust anyone here._ It occurred to Elrond that Legolas might feel very much at odds, like being in the enemy's camp playing at being an ally, unable to alleviate the strain he was under. Glorfindel's assessment proved accurate; for all he was surrounded by a multitude of people, Legolas was alone.

The reconciliation was spectacular when it came, and it was long in coming. For days Elladan wooed his sylvan archer, ever conscious of Elrohir's keen observation and the whole household's feigned and studied indifference. He became the Wood Elf's shadow, arriving in the dawn with a tray of food and wild flowers, never removing his eyes from him the whole of the day, following him back to the apartment door at eventide, remaining seated there outside until an hour before dawn, listening to the footfalls wear upon the carpets within. Everyday he started anew: fresh flowers and an incessant stream of avowing words of love and guilty sorrow. Nothing had any effect; Legolas behaved as though Elladan were invisible or did not exist. Finally, Elrohir took his brother aside and revealed the event he'd witnessed at the falls.

Elladan flew into a towering rage and broke down the bolted bedroom door. Legolas bodily threw him out and left the house, Elladan in pursuit, his furious yelling accusing him of every despicable thing he could summon up: a cowardly nature, a vengeful spirit that sought to destroy him by such an underhanded method it was unimaginable, insanity, all these traits rolled up into one "just like Thranduil". That brought Legolas' retreat to a halt. They were in the courtyard, paused on the elegantly paved plaza before the graceful fountain and its temperate gurgle. Numerous eyes watched from the veranda, from the windows of the house, from garden benches and shaded paths. Oblivious to all of it, Legolas studied Elladan minutely, noting his wild appearance and pale cheeks, the dilated irises swirling in a turmoil of terrible despair.

"I don't even know why I love you," he said quietly. "I wish I didn't."

"Ai, Legolas, do you? Then, please do not abandon me!" Elladan burst out, tears suddenly crowding into his eyes. "Not like that! Promise!" He took a hesitant step, hand upraised, then halted. The tears escaped and he choked on the words he wanted say. Why couldn't he get them out? It was simple enough: I love you; if you kill yourself, you kill me, too. They wouldn't come and in his frustration he groaned and gnashed his teeth. He blinked and ducked his head to swipe at the offensive tears and thus distracted missed the Wood Elf's headlong rush to grab hold of him, cling to him, berating him for a fool, a beloved fool!

Elladan smiled through the deluge, unable to stop the flow, weeping as though he were grieving even while his heart burned with the glory of the soft endearments Legolas poured over his spirit with soothing words and tender kisses. Suddenly, he heaved Legolas up in his arms and marched back into the house, back to the apartment and its ruined portal, back to the bed where he wasted not another minute laying claim to his mate with punishing authority. They did not leave the suite for two days, Elladan poking his head through the disabled door to demand, at top volume, food and drink and water for washing. The serving girl who brought the water earned fleeting celebrity when she revealed she'd glimpsed the Woodland Prince trussed up naked, arms bound to the bed, his fair skin revealing a crimson weal or two. When the pair at last emerged, everyone pretended nothing had happened; Elrond had the door replaced and its frame repaired, and both the volatile lovers were wearing matched bonding bands of simple gold.

The household breathed a collective sigh of relief, and only Elrond objected when the brothers announced their plans to return to the obligations of the vow, Legolas to accompany them. They did not heed him.

  
"You've done what?" Arathorn stared at his father in disbelief, sight flickering aside to take in the trio of elves waiting a little ways apart, their sharp eyes watching intently. _Probably reading our lips as we speak._

"Made treaty with Greenwood," repeated Arador. "Legolas is Thranduil's son and has pledged his support in building a suitable force so to free Eriador of evil influence. We will rebuild Anuminas, Arathorn!"

"The woodland king will support our cause? Preposterous! Why would he?"

"I did not say so," Arador hedged. "Legolas is our ally. He brings much needed financial backing and a keen desire to defeat our common enemies."

"Legolas." Arathorn frowned at his father, incredulous, and cast his evaluating stare over the fair creature standing close at Elladan's side. The inspection did not yield a better opinion. "One lone Wood Elf. What can he do? And why should he choose to do it? Is it because of Elladan's vow?" He'd learned of his distant cousin's bonding at the same time he'd been told of this unexpected coalition.

"Do not be so quick to judge," scolded Arador. "I've seen him spar with Elladan and he will not disappoint. He is an accomplished warrior, as you will see for yourself." In truth, Arador was waiting for this proof, too, and internally as doubtful as his son. He hoped he would not be proved wrong in partnering with the Wood Elf. " As to his reasons, they are complex. Certainly these encompass his desire to support his mate, but he also has need of our aid in return for his. His lands are beset by a potent foe in the Necromancer, who rules from Dol Guldur."

"You have committed us to war in Mirkwood?" Arathorn sputtered. "That is incomprehensible, Adar, and the men will not take to it."

"They will come around," Arador insisted, "once they see the value of our new friend. If not, what is lost? We have Legolas' promise of help and his money to arm and train the men we need. If those men refuse to go to Greenwood when asked, neither you nor I can force them."

Arathorn visibly started, stunned to hear such a treacherous comment fall from his father's lips. "You do not mean to keep faith with this Wood Elf? That, too, is incomprehensible to me. Adar, it is dishonourable conduct!"

"Again you assail me with your snap judgements!" complained Arador. "Did I say I would break faith? You must know better and so I demand your apology. I merely stated the truth: we cannot predict what our men will agree to do when it comes to war with Dol Guldur."

"I apologise, then, but I do not feel right about this. Has it been explained to Legolas that you cannot demand our peoples' allegiance to his cause?"

"I have said the army will be at his disposal once he completes his end of the bargain and our lands are free."

"Then you will have to honour that pledge."

"We shall see," Arador intoned cryptically. "There is more at play here between those three than you know; I'll explain when we are alone. For now, trust to my assessment and encourage the sylvan." He beckoned the elves nearer. "Come and meet my son, Legolas. Arathorn will be your chief liaison as recruitment and training progresses."

"Mae govannen, Arathorn son of Arador," Legolas smiled as he extended his arm, noting the man's lack of enthusiasm with no small degree of wry discontent. "I am glad to work with you on this endeavour, but you will find I've no need for a liaison. I am acquainted with the ways of men."

"Indeed? The Dunedain are not like unto the folk inhabiting your forest," the man could not hide his indignation to have this comparison openly stated. He gave the ellon's arm the briefest contact possible.

"Legolas meant no slight," assured Elladan, flanking his mate protectively.

"I can convey my meaning adequately," he retorted, moving apart. "I am curious, Arathorn; is it an insult to compare your countrymen to courageous and determined warriors who defy the most abhorrent evil since the fall of that Nameless One?"

"No," Arathorn's brow scrunched into tracks of discontent and he huffed a breath, realising he was the one guilty of uncouth speech. "Forgive my harsh tongue."

"I will think of it no more," Legolas dipped his head graciously. "Your help will be invaluable, Arathorn. My skill in fighting will need to be adjusted to the open plains here, even as the Rangers must adapt to the close confines of the forest. The sooner we begin the better. What people do you deem the most likely to enlist with us?"

"None," the austere man shook his head. "The land is too sparsely populated."

"Why so? It is a broad, rich region," Legolas remarked, moving to the open window and leaning upon the sill, looking about him. They were in Fornost now, gathered in a ruined building that despite its dilapidated condition served as a tavern, a meeting hall, and lodgings for some of the Rangers. Their room was a long, parlour partially exposed by the collapsing roof, with only a great table upon which was pinned an extensively marked map indicating recent campaigns and principal areas in need of greater protection. It was in the upper story and afforded a view of the fallen city surrounded by sweeping, uncultivated fields in every direction.

"Eriador and Eregion were ravaged during the last Age, and Fornost fell not so long ago," explained Elrohir.

"Yes, we have the histories in Greenwood, too," Legolas rejoined, showing Elrohir a cheeky grin. "War with the Enemy and then the Great Plague, I know. I know, too, of Angmar and his repulse by the combined efforts of Gondor, Mithlond, and Imladris. That was long ago by the standards of human-kind. Why have men not returned?"

"We have not exactly encouraged new emigrants," stated Arador. "This land is for the Dunedain, not the rabble that pours out of Dunland or Harad."

"I see," Legolas was not impressed; this was much like the scorn to which his people were subjected by the self-named High elves of Imladris and Lindon. "Then, if you will not grant these outlanders the right to make homesteads within the bounds of Arnor, why should they risk their lives for you?"

"I hope to be able to pay them well through the funds you are providing us," Arador said.

"Mercenaries will have no loyalty to your cause and may be bought by a higher price at any time. The higher price is not generally gold and jewels, but promises to the very land you hope to reclaim." Elladan cautioned, agreeing with his mate that the only means to truly transform the barren lands was through an influx of new blood, eager and willing to fight for the chance to build up a safe haven for the raising of families.

"I am not seeking to be invaded by lesser people," Arador argued. "There is no point in this endeavour if that is the solution you propose. We have enough of these folk already, asking for protection yet producing nothing that transfers beyond their own borders."

"You malign the Halflings," Elrohir reproved. "They are more than willing to engage in free trade, but have been needfully careful so not to fall victim to a greater force removing them from their homes. They are industrious, productive, and of a peace-loving nature. Good citizens."

"We have disagreed about this before," Arador sighed heavily. "I cannot ask my people to wage a bloody war for the sake of outsiders who will then demand the best of the countryside for their own. We are of Numenor and closer to our elven cousins than to other human populations."

"This is not logical," Legolas scoffed at him. "To be Numenorean means next to nothing now. Why do you not engage the aid of Gondor? You did so once before." He inserted this question quickly, seeing Arathorn's clear desire to bodily convey what he thought of the preceding comment. As suspected, the query reduced both men to glowering, sullen silence. "As I said, we have the histories in Greenwood and know all about the break between the two realms, though we find it strange that after defeating the Witch King, Eärnil made no effort to bolster the might of the Dunedain here and rebuild Arnor."

"And yet you claim to understand the hearts of men," Arathorn scoffed.

"You mean it was the intent of the ruling King of Gondor for his kin in the north to dwindle into nothing, thus posing no threat to his reign or his power," Legolas declared. Only a gloomy, sulky expression returned answer, and as he looked from face to face it was plain his words were deemed the most rude and callous possible. "Come, this is ridiculous!" he exclaimed. "How can you hope to change things if you cannot openly admit where matters stand now?"

"You know much more about my people than I do of yours," Arathorn admitted uncomfortably. "Truly, I earned the words you spoke, painful though they are to hear, in as much as I challenged you to speak them." The man sighed uneasily and shared a displeased glance with his father. "What you describe is how we understand it, for like you we can discern no other reason to leave us so under-manned when intervention at that time might have made a difference in the fate of the north kingdom. Now, Gondor has few enough men to defend her and too many enemies challenging her borders to come and aid us, even if she would."

"It is easy for me to see and it is time for you both to face up to the reality," Legolas went on as though the man had not spoken, lecturing them as he would first year novices under his tutelage in Greenwood. "What does it mean to say one is Numenorean? Does that term reflect the influence of elvish heritage which you say is more pertinent to you than that of the Edain? Yet, why should this be so? Even when the Men of the West were at the height of their glory, dwelling on the island granted to them for a time, few were those who carried elven blood, for Elros had but one wife and four children.

"Each of those children took mates from among the Edain of the old Houses, or so the legends tell, but none of those people ever claimed any elven heritage, nor did they require such a claim in order to be worthy of respect. What became of the descendants of those folk? They are the Dunedain, here, and the people of Gondor in the south, yet each generation following after Elros' children has become more and more dilute, for the remnant of the Numenoreans is a small number, and was even in the Second Age. There were men dwelling here before the kingdoms of Arnor and Gondor arose, and these folk were absorbed into your people after the wars with Sauron which called your countrymen forth from Westernesse. They earned their place among you by virtue of their valour and their loyalty; it must be the same now."

"You are very quick to decide what the fate of my people should be," Arathorn complained, for this instruction in his own history at the hands of a mere youth, and a Wood Elf at that, was utterly insulting to him. "Would you be so willing to accept advice from me as to how best to resolve the problems assailing Mirkwood?"

"It is still Greenwood, at least where my people dwell," Legolas corrected him, "and I am willing, eager even, to hear any advice that may advance my peoples' safety and freedom. What do you suggest as the best means to defeat the Necromancer and drive his Wraiths and his Orcs from my woods?"

"My advice is to desert the forest. Leave it behind and "

"And what?" Legolas interrupted. "Shall I lead my people out from the eaves of the forest to come and settle here in your lands, Arathorn? Are you prepared to bow before a Sindarin King? If not, then upon whose lands should we encroach?"

"Well, you did it once before," the man reminded, "and there are yet elven lands besides Greenwood."

"True enough, but the sylvans are of the Teleri, our kin from the ancient days in the time before time when the only light touching the leaves fell from the silver sparks of Varda's stars. We returned to our own and have completely merged with the folk who never left. We have no right to invade the lands of other elven peoples and demand sanctuary."

"Then maybe you should all go over sea and leave the world to the men who must tame it and rule it."

"That is one view and not a very polite one, considering we were here first and have not hindered the path of men. The Blessed Realm is an invention of the Valar, not of elves and not of Eru. My people never desired to go there, for we are close to the lands made for us by Eru. Who are you to judge that the world is meant only for men to rule? Iluvatar's will seems clear; First and Second-born are equally within their rights to dwell anywhere upon Arda, mindful that our time here is determined by the fundamental qualities of our distinct and individual natures."

"Meaning that the immortal youth of the elven folk trumps the fleeting mortality of men," sneered Arathorn.

"Meaning my people were not created to experience death, and what you name our immortality is limited by the life of the world itself. That seems to me a fairly potent claim upon the lands."

"Yet you may escape Arda for the Blessed Realm and the protection granted to the First-born there. Given that you have two homes and we only one, I would say that grants humans the stronger right, for we have no where else to go."

"For that matter, it is said among my people that men do not remain within the circles of the world once their lives expire, but depart for some other place. Since your kind will be here so short a time before departing forever, it is rather rude to instruct those who are bound here forever. Again I say it is not proper to insist we must go from our homeland," Legolas lectured. "We have little love for the Valar who deserted us and left us ill-equipped to manage under the evil influence Melkor exerted over the world. How are elves to prevail against Vala when even the Vala retreat in defeat and concede the victory to their malicious brother?"

"This is a fruitless argument," Elrohir admonished, having waited as long as he could for either Elladan or Arador to intervene, or both. "We are of two natures but yet me may discover a common purpose, Arathorn."

"I am not so sure," the man replied, disliking the words of Legolas for he could not refute them. "I mistrust this proposed alliance; I mistrust him." He pointed at Legolas.

"The treaty already exists and cannot be dismissed due to your uneasiness," Elrohir cautioned.

"I have signed for us all; it cannot be sundered without dishonour to our name," Arador advised, "not that I have any wish to dissolve it."

"You have no cause to mistrust Legolas," Elladan at last chastised his kinsman sharply. "Neither he nor any of his people have ever done anything that was worthy of your scorn. Indeed, one may say men owe the sylvan people a debt of gratitude, Arathorn, for their part in the Last Alliance."

"Enough! Fine!" the man hollered, red of face and thoroughly mortified, it being obvious the Twins would back the sylvan no matter what he might say. He glanced at his father, understanding first hand for the first time Arador's frustration over his dealings with the First-born. He made an awkward and elaborate shrug of his shoulders. "There is an alliance between us; I will not dishonour it." Here he cast a sharp eye upon his father once more and saw that Legolas did not miss it. Now he made an exaggerated bow. "I am indebted to you, Legolas of the Woodland Realm, for your assistance and your father's gold." It made Legolas laugh, a bright sound devoid of any malice of harsh feelings.

"Ha na maer! (It is good!) I need your aid in turn," Legolas assured him. "I know the hearts of men cannot be touched by gold, at least not the best men, not the men you would wish to fight beside you. The woodsmen of Greenwood fight alongside the sylvans because it is their home, too. We share it willingly and did not seek to drive them from the woods when they first came among us, refugees from the wars between mortals and Orcs before the Brown Lands held that name, when it was a fair, green place. I believe there are worthy men that we may find here in the west who would gladly fight for you, if they had the promise of a safe homeland for their families in future."

"And you would recruit these men out of Dunland and Harad." Arathorn shook his head. "You know nothing of these people and the low, grasping nature of their kind to suggest such a thing."

"I have not suggested it," Legolas shrugged. "There are many lands upon the world, many marked here upon this map. I do think that less emphasis should be placed on the place of origin than on the quality of their characters."

"I concur," Elladan said. "There are numerous good people living around Imladris who would eagerly join this cause in the hopes of procuring a stable country, a wise and just leader, and a safe, prosperous future for their descendants."

"Aye. We have not proposed this before," Elrohir added, "because our focus has been upon vengeance and the vow. Now, we see these purposes are not separate but part of the same goal. What better revenge, what more perfect profession of our sworn oath than to rid these lands of evil forever and replace the rightful rulers of Eriador?"

"Indeed, it cannot be denied that much Legolas has spoken holds truth," Arador sighed unhappily. "It is truth we can no longer ignore, my son. Let us do as he and the twins say and seek these good people out, offering them citizenship among the Dunedain in exchange for their allegiance and their support."

"I am overruled," the man grumbled belligerently. "So be it." He pointed at Legolas. "You say you know the hearts of men, then explain how you will convince these people to follow your commands? You are more foreign to them than orcs, a creature of fable and legend, fair to behold but perilous, and they will not trust you so easily."

"I am not worried on that score," Legolas laughed, reaching into his tunic and retrieving from its pocket the elaborate ring he'd stolen from the Wraith. He tossed it high and watched it glint and glimmer in the light as it rose and fell back into his palm. "I will allow them to judge for themselves my worthiness to command. One battle is all I require and a creature of legend I shall indeed become."

"What is that?" Arador asked sharply, pointing at the inner pocket where the ring was again hidden away. "What have you there, Legolas?"

"A token of my skill," he answered, "and when the time comes I will reveal it to all. To you I will explain: I have defeated one of the Nazgul plaguing my homeland and that is its ring," he exhibited it between finger and thumb for their edification, then slipped it back into his pocket, "the source of its unholy existence and the link to its dark master. For now, let this be concealed from others. It will not become important until we must prepare to besiege Dol Guldur, and then the men will need this proof that what I ask is not impossible."

The Chieftain and his heir were silent and stared for some minutes at the Wood Elf before turning questioning eyes upon the Twins.

"We have no cause to disbelieve his boast," Elrohir shook his head, smiling.

"It is not a boast," Elladan reprimanded his brother. "It is a pledge and a promise. Who else has dared it in cold blood? None. For myself, I would back such a warrior even if he were the lowliest of mortals."

"I suppose that is an endorsement," Legolas grimaced over this oblique reference to his lesser status in comparison to his mate. "Now then, I need an army and to start one let us gather what troops you have in this land already, the best of the Rangers. I need that one battle, Arathorn." He took hold of the man's arm and tugged him to the table. "Show me where we will stage it."


	10. Chapter 10

Sorrow Full of Rage

#  Oh, Sorrow

#### A Legolas/Elladan Story by erobey, unbeta'd

## Auth-en-Gail Dhógiel

###  ~ Battle of Killing Light ~ _Eriador 2917_

Pp

"It is to be a moonless night fight under the stars, conducted on the low plains dividing the broken crags cradling Evendim and the hilly region north of Fornost, the very place where the men of Gondor first met and routed Angmar's army over a thousand years ago," Legolas announced in clear tones of confidence and gravity.

He stood before the gathered Rangers, tall, rugged, dour men unaccustomed to being addressed by any but their own Lords. Not even Elladan and Elrohir treated with them like this, deferring to their Chieftain to make any and all announcements of battle plans. They gazed upon him nonplussed, uncertain what to make of him, and Legolas wished in that moment that he had inherited the exalted and lordly stature of his Sindarin father instead of the lithe, limber conformation of his sylvan mother. Even with Elladan and Elrohir flanking him, he felt keenly the difference between him and these people whose loyalty he must win, whose hearts he must own.

Arathorn was right; these were not the simple woodsmen of the Greenwood and they were not impressed by his royal status as Thranduil's son, owning no king but their own deprecated and exiled Chieftain. Rather, they were inclined to view him as an unwanted condition of the environment that must be stoically endured until they could alter the circumstances. Yet, Legolas had faced difficult situations before and convinced far more taciturn minds than these, for none could be more stubborn, more arrogant, more set in their thinking than Wood Elves alive since the Awakening, and he had once earned the respect and allegiance of even these Elders among his people. He remembered why he was here and what was at stake and then he stood a bit straighter, raised his chin a little higher.

"I will not offer you any pretence. It would be hard to locate worse conditions possible for a Wood Elf accustomed to fighting under the cover of endless trees," he admitted openly and saw this was surprising to them. "Yet only these conditions will gain us the advantage we seek. Our foes will more easily fall for our ruse if we make the most of the unusual addition to your numbers. Word has gone round far and wide of my presence here. Few are the people who have seen any of the First-born, yet nearly all have heard much of the Wood Elves. They know of the divide between my people and yours, between my people and Lord Elrond's, and mistake this for dissension. So then, let them assume that distrust is real and that it represents a weakness they may exploit." He had their attention, though they did not see yet the gist of his speech, and he paced before them slowly, caught Elladan's eye, sparkling with pride and mild astonishment, and did not bother to subdue the broad smile this engendered.

"For it is true, is it not, at least in part?" he asked them and several assenting murmurs arose. "That is always the way before acquaintances become fast friends, and we need not be concerned over it." One or two faces exhibited mild surprise or confusion. "Nay, I will either win your trust at the conclusion of this endeavour, or not. Whatever the outcome, my addition to your ranks cannot diminish the strength of the Dunedain, nor erode the courage of the Rangers, nor lessen the cohesive force born of the experience of long hardship over many years of strife and toil. Nay, it matters not whether I am here or not; the Dunedain will carry the day, or the night." Heads nodded sagely and grim smiles approved his words.

"This is a fact, and one our foes should know, yet I predict these Shadow-slaves will believe otherwise. Indeed, it is in their nature to be deceitful, to be conniving, to vie one against the other for the highest place, to sacrifice an entire company to advance the course of one individual. They will believe what we show them, never doubting it to be false since it is the way of things among them. We will let them think it is Oropher's charge against Morannon all over again. They will be unable to ignore the lure and will surely come after my small band, thinking to run us down and destroy us utterly. They will find themselves overwhelmed instead."

More murmurs arose and Legolas listened, knew he hadn't won them yet, but neither did he expect to until the fight was over. He only needed them to see the logic of this strategy and follow through. They would only do so on orders from Arador.

"It is a fair plan," Halbarad conceded, stepping forward, "but who is to comprise this company of bold, if irrational, soldiers?" A few chuckles followed his words, and Legolas smiled, too, nodding.

"Aye, for who would follow a Wood Elf, knowing their reputation for stout hearts but weak intellects?" he asked. More laughter at that. Legolas shrugged. "I would neither ask nor order anyone among you to undertake such a task, for such is not my place. You have your ways of assigning duty and it is for your Lords to determine who is best suited for this one. It matters not to me, knowing full well every man among you to be a worthy and resourceful fighter." That made them all quiet and they remained still, evaluating him openly, as they had done these many weeks past. Legolas freely met the challenging, doubtful, and in some cases resentful stares evenly.

Then Arador stepped forward and he retreated, taking his place beside the Twins, openly securing Elladan's hand in his. Many were the eyes that ranged over them and he could see in those expressions wonder and appreciation; truly, they made a daunting and impressive trio: perilous, fair and fey and fantastic, heroes out of legends come to life, and he perhaps the most mythic of the three. For the Twins they knew and were even of their own kin, but a Wood Elf was a mystery and a fable, an unknown to fear or at least hold at a cautionary distance.

He was accustomed to distance, having experienced it among his own ever since that day; everyone gave him a wide berth. Even so, the nomadic life on the North Downs had been an uneasy transition for him, not principally due to resistance from the Rangers, who expressed their doubts in turned shoulders and silence, or in private beyond his hearing, but because of his unfamiliarity with the terrain and the methods of combat particular to it. He had realised at once he would need a new bow, for his was designed to use beneath the trees and the draw was lesser than required to fell foes at great distance. He would need that advantage if he would destroy the enemy's archers first. This he judged most important and the primary way in which his skills would show superior to the Rangers'. Even so, crafting a new bow took time he did not have. He resolved to work with the weapon he had brought out of Greenwood.

To gain every possible benefit from his natural ability, he learned to shoot from horseback. Now, Legolas could ride well, as any of the First-born could, but keeping horses was difficult in the woodland realm where forage was scarce enough for the indigenous wild life. The expense of providing shelter and food was too high to maintain a stable of war horses; nor was it practical to utilise them for combat in the close quarters of the endless trees. Thus, he had no experience in this area while comprehending at once the importance of developing the skill as quickly as possible. A horse was required for this and from Arathorn he requested and received permission to befriend and tame one of the moorland mares ranging the wild, deserted lands.

He chose a small, nimble steed less bulky than a traditional war horse, but fast and agile. She was a brash, curious creature who ignored the warnings of her herd-mates and let the archer approach. A brown and white piebald mare, she made Legolas work hard for two days before he could coax her to his will, but after being thrown from her bucking back three times and forced to either dismount or be rolled over upon, Legolas struck a bargain with her comprised of apples, sweet treats, respectful words, and a gentle touch. All this transpired amid the amused observation and unsolicited advice of Halbarad, Arathorn, Elladan, Elrohir, and various men among the Rangers who followed to see in action the much lauded elven way with animals.

Win her trust Legolas did, and accord between horse and elf progressed rapidly. They were a good match, as he'd known they would be, and he named her Rûskaninkwi. (Brown and white) She discovered she enjoyed the diligent grooming he performed, especially the attention to her feet as he cleaned them and filed her hooves, and the soft, lyrical speech that communicated approbation and genuine affection. She came to understand that he had no desire to enclose her in a fence or a stable and that he was pleased to run with her over the fields and meadows, to stand guard beside her when she slept, to rest near her as she grazed. This being true, she was disposed to carry him without bridle or halter or any gear at all. This barrier removed, Legolas proceeded to relearn his art from the mare's back and endured the laughter and ribbing of the Rangers with grace and humility, for his aim suffered terribly at first.

They were no longer jesting after the end of two week's practice when he was hitting targets so far away they could barely see them, this while the horse galloped at top speed over the rugged plains.

Legolas refrained from boasting about this achievement, letting their own eyes convince them. Soon there were new jokes to replace the ones about how inelegant and uncoordinated he was for one of the First-born. Now, the jeers mainly regarded the degree of sweating his efforts produced, also uncommon among the First-born, or so they had thought. Upon returning to the encampment one evening after a hard day's travail on horseback and in mock combat with Elladan, he was pelted with small slivers of pressed soap and urged to bathe amid much exaggerated nose holding and gagging. He weathered all this with equanimity, judging it the best sign that he was becoming accepted among the rugged edain, though he well knew the real test was yet to be passed.

As to that, in private council Elladan had urged him to defer to Arador and Arathorn. He was to be their new captain, but all orders must come from them. He must not speak out to them in front of the Rangers as he had done on his introduction to Arathorn. All he needed to do for this initial encounter was uphold his assigned role with honour and valour and the men would consider him one of their own thereafter. Legolas listened to all this without argument, but that was because he had expected such advise. He had no intention of adhering to these suggestions, knowing full well that what was required was something spectacular, something almost shocking. If the men were wary of him, it was a point of view he approved and even hoped to enhance into awe. If these seasoned men were to listen to his words and accept his plans in future, they must have the proof before them first. Then, their trust would be readily given and they would forfeit their very lives if need be to ensure victory.

His life with Elladan improved after the exchange of rings and the renewal of their bond. The pair became inseparable, for Elrohir remained true to his word and no longer sought to impede Legolas. His presence was felt as strongly as before, however, and aroused an entirely new set of difficulties for Legolas. It was worse, he found, to have Elrohir be cordial and courteous, even friendly, for now he had no excuse to avoid him as he had previously. Whenever he was near, tensions mounted and Elladan invariably expressed a jealous possessiveness that the archer found unbearable. It was difficult to conceal this from the Dunedain, not fools by any means. A pool was started based upon how long it would take for Legolas to relent to Elrohir's persistent attention and switch mates.

Legolas devised a way to evade these woes, suggesting he and Elladan set out on a scouting mission designed to familiarise the woodland archer with the geography of the fallen kingdom and make his presence known among the scattered farms and settlements. To explain his sudden appearance, they gave out word among these folk that a large portion of the sylvan people were seeking to immigrate to the region skirting the foothills of Nenuial; the very place where the battle was to be staged. If he was right about spies amid the populace, this news would spread to their enemies and thus encourage them to stop such an infusion of strength and vigour among the Rangers. Now at the advent of their first foray into the ten-year campaign, he could do no more to prepare for the battle. Either he had done enough or not and only time would give the answer.

"Elrohir, you will lead the Third battalion as always and proceed through the gap first," Arador issued his commands with calm authority, the map spread before them on the ground where he, the Twins, Arathorn, and Halbarad knelt. "At the Bend, you will abandon the course toward Nenuial and cross Baranduin, striking due south for the foothills. There you are to camp and await the caravan out of the Shire."

Arador cast a glance at the Wood Elf standing behind them, silent and inscrutable. He was glad of the monies Legolas brought to his cause, but leery of the Wood Elf's more involved contribution to the struggle. He was still an unknown quantity and the motives driving him seemed too distant, not so much in actual miles, though that was great, but in time. He supposed that was another example of 'the long view' about which Lord Erestor was forever harping.

All Legolas' assurances about the sham immigration story aside, the man simply did not have any confidence in the archer, considering him too volatile and too young to withstand the rigours of the kind of campaign required to raise the North Kingdom once again. True, he had shown his skills to be admirable and his willingness to endure primitive conditions unquestionable, but he was more foreign and strange to the Rangers than the wandering band of exiles under the loose leadership of Gildor, whom Arador had encountered but twice in all his life. The peculiar relationship between him and the Twins was confusing to say the least, and Arador considered him a threat to the stability of his most valued allies. Nonetheless, he had signed an agreement with him and would reap some benefit from it.

"Arathorn, you will command the main body of men and march north into the Downs, there to take the Dipping Path and thus come out north of Elrohir's encampment. Elladan, you will lead Legolas and the Second battalion south to meet and escort the caravan as it enters the expanse of the Dales. I will take the Inner Guard on quick march to the high grounds in the Foothills and there wait until the trap is sprung," he continued.

"We must expect at least token resistance as we begin these manoeuvres," added Arathorn, meeting the gaze of his staunchest soldiers. "We are to engage them but fall back until we seem to be in retreat."

"At this point Legolas will have the sudden uncontrollable urge to sweep in and support the caravan left bereft of aid. He will combat the enemy and do what Wood Elves do best, but without sacrificing any of my men, mind," Arador cast a baleful eye upon him.

Legolas smiled and offered a short bow. These people had no idea what Wood Elves did best, but they were about to be enlightened.

"The archer will get himself hopelessly overwhelmed and then the remainder of our forces will pounce. We will attack on three fronts: Elrohir's Third will come in on Legolas' right flank to break the enemy's advance there, while Arathorn will descend from the north and drive through to the surrounded soldiers, and finally I will bring down the Inner Guard, sweeping out of the Foothills to attack from the west. We will crush them."

"Agreed, the plot is efficient and direct, yet what of this caravan?" Halbarad asked, for this was a complete fabrication that must have a substantial physical presence upon the plain of battle, else the ruse must fail.

"Aye, we cannot really involve the folk of the Shire in this struggle," another man argued.

"No more shall we," Legolas spoke up. "This caravan is comprised of the first of my recruits, gleaned from a small cluster of isolated crofts and a village I visited in my wanderings with Elladan."

"What say you? These are the very homes of our own people!" One man stepped forward, displeased. "What right have you to ask the women and the young, or the aged and infirm to serve as bait for this elaborate trap?"

"I have not done any such thing," Legolas said. "These people have volunteered for this mission, and they do not number themselves among the Dunedain, no more would you."

"Then who are they?" demanded Arathorn, for he had not been told of this.

"They are refugees, driven out of their home by the encroaching Shadow. They are friends of the Dunedain from of old," Legolas explained.

"They seclude themselves for fear of being driven out," Elladan added. "They have seen the strength of the Rangers and fear you. Legolas and I have promised them the lands they now inhabit for their own if they join our cause, and their chief has agreed, for they cannot go home."

"In what lands are they dwelling? Tell me who they are, Elladan," Arador was not pleased. "I thought I made it clear that any recruits were to be approved by me before approaching them."

"Do you doubt my judgement?" Elladan demanded calmly, but his question was charged with that same manner of condescension Elrond was wont to use, a hint of the veiled might he was capable of wielding should he deem it necessary to do so.

Arador was used to this by now, but his face turned red nonetheless and his scowl was particularly bitter. "I do not doubt you, Elladan," he answered.

"But you do," Legolas suddenly challenged him.

"Nay, let it go, Legolas," Elladan reached for him and was brushed off.

"No! We cannot have this dissension among us any longer," he said. "Arador, if you do not want the help of Imladris and Greenwood it needs to be said, here and now. If you think our objectives different than yours, state your concerns here and now. If you believe we are not acting in the interests of all of us, then say so, though you will have waited late to do it."

"I do not renounce you or your aid," Arador quickly abjured his remarks, making a short bow to underscore them.

"Aye, yet it is accepted with reluctance," Legolas nodded. A few grumbling remarks indicated his words did not please the men. "It is the same for me," he went on. "In Greenwood the sylvan people have lived since the Great Journey, finding all we needed was supplied by the forest and the work of our own hands. When troubles came, we defended ourselves ably and resisted the incursions of evil upon our homeland unaided by any other people. Now, we find we are too few to defeat our enemy and so I am here among you. Our enemy is also your enemy; the losses that afflict my people have decimated yours as well. The time has come for us to set aside pride and work in common that both our peoples may survive."

"That is true enough," Halbarad said simply. He smiled grimly at the fair Wood Elf. "I think it wise to trust them," he added. "Elladan and ELrohir have been the friends of the Rangers since before my time, indeed, prior to any of your births. They have risked life and limb for our sakes without expectation of any recompense. I believe loyalty is the least we owe them."

"Aye, I've no quarrel with you there," one of the men agreed, "but we don't know anything about that one." He pointed at Legolas.

"Don't you?" Elrohir quickly jumped in to defend the archer. "We have all witnessed his perseverance and determination to adapt to a new environment with grace and dignity. He has done all you asked and more; this despite a somewhat cool welcome. He has if anything exceeded our expectations. Who among us would do as well in his world?"

"To be fair, my people would be just as suspicious of any of you," Legolas told them with a shrug. "I have no qualms about winning your trust; after tonight's fight, you will believe the Wood Elves will make powerful friends."

"We have agreed to this strategy," Arathorn guided them back to the matter before them, "because it is the best way to begin this campaign. Our objective is to re-establish the kingdom of Arnor in the north, and to do it we need more soldiers and the means to properly train and accoutre them. We have the experience required to undertake the training; Legolas has brought us the funds to see it done."

"Enough," Elladan suddenly stated, disgusted. "Our choice for the caravan will prove itself wise or not. If not, it is Legolas and I who will bear the brunt of their deception, and we will eradicate them if that is the case. Let us discuss this topic again after the battle, when I will be expecting apologies for this disparagement of my fitness to make so simple a decision." He turned and mounted his charger and set out at a brisk canter so that Legolas and the rest of the Second had to hurry to catch him up.

  
In the days that followed, the battle came to be called Auth-en-Gail Dhógiel, the Battle of the Killing Light, and word of the Ranger's victory spread throughout Eriador so that folk in the Angle and Dunland had word of it before a week had passed. It was a spectacular success and none could deny that this was due more to Legolas than to any other. He had easily fulfilled the role assigned him, leading a desperate charge into the heart of the attacking forces which had surrounded and, in fact, captured the caravan. By pre-arranged agreement, these fighters acting as humble merchants gave no resistance until the Wood Elf attacked. He did not wait for Elrohir's soldiers; he did not wait for Arathorn's men, he did not even wait for Elladan. Indeed, he had decided to bring everything to its climax before Elladan was in range of the enemy's arrows.

The opposing forces were a combination of Orcs and men, well trained, well armed, and more organised than would be a simple roving group of miscreants. They rode wargs and tough, rangy horses, and their only mistake was believing the sylvan elf and his small detachment would be easily subdued. Before they could extricate themselves from the field, more than a third of them were destroyed, slain primarily by elven arrows fired by Legolas, but that was not what made the battle memorable.

There came a point when all his arrows were spent and none were ready to hand, though there was an aid whose sole duty was to keep Legolas supplied with the bolts. He had failed to keep up with the archer, but this was not due to his carelessness nor even the vagaries of warfare. Legolas had deliberately driven ahead, moving forward past the enemy line exactly in the manner of an arrow fired into the heart of a foe. Once behind this line, Legolas shouldered his bow, unsheathed his long knife, and unleashed the full force of his brilliance upon them, a burst of white, illumination that confused the men and infused the Orcs with terror, for to them it seemed their deaths were a result of this light rather than the deadly blade that darted among them so quickly.

The ability to see their quarry more clearly under this tinu 'lân (brilliant spark) enabled Elrohir and Elladan to train their bows upon the surrounding host and bring down a substantial portion of the suddenly defensive force. Their work was crucial to Legolas' success, even to his survival, and the brothers shared thoughts dominated by exasperated terror intermingled with intense admiration to see him thus place himself at risk. Yet his strategy could not be deemed faulty in his own mind, for he knew himself and his capabilities and he knew the weak hearts of Orcs and the malleable minds of lesser men, and played those flaws to his advantage. As he had learned to do early in his life, Legolas loosed the full force of his hatred and his fear, his sorrow and his rage upon them, all camouflaged in the glorious beauty of pure elven light.

Apprised to expect something spectacular, the captured caravan of warriors raised aloud a piercing cry, a distinctive declaration particular to their people, shocking and frightening in its own right, and uncovered weapons hidden beneath in the very structure of their humble carts and wagons. Oh yes, the goods, furs and foodstuffs, had been appropriated by their captors, but none of them had thought to dismantle the wooden frames of the drays. The enemy found themselves beset from within and without and had no avenue for escape as Arathorn and his warriors swooped in to cut off their retreat. They were decimated nearly to the last soldier, but sufficient numbers escaped the massacre to spread news of the disaster far and wide. Auth-en-Gail Dhógiel was a great victory and an announcement of the Rangers' intent that none could fail to comprehend.

In imladris, Elrond learned of it and immediately sent Glorfindel out with orders for his sons to halt this initiative and return home, bringing Legolas with them.

  
It had been a spectacular and compelling fight, claiming the attention of everyone not wounded by the battle proper, and they stood now together as dawn broke over the windswept plains, the hint of its light touching upon them where they faced one another naked and spent amid the flowers of the field beside an ephemeral stream. Ebony and golden hair flowed freely, loosed to permit the touch of fingers and the wind, mingling in the fragrant breeze, draping them protectively, jealously from prying eyes that peered too closely for too long. A glance was permitted, welcomed, but could a glimpse of such perfection ever satisfy a soul hungry for proof of it in so marred a world? They knew the answer innately and let them look who would.

 _'Are you hurt? Ai, you're bleeding!' Elladan grabbed him at the biceps with either hand, his sword thrown down, forgotten on the bloody ground._

 _'It is nothing, a minor flesh wound. Be at peace; we have our first victory!' Legolas allowed his mate's harried inspection with tolerant appreciation, attributing his distress to the degree of his love._

 _'Ask me if I care! Nay, don't for I don't. You are reckless and dangerous, Legolas, and play freely with my heart, with my very life. I don't know if I can bear it!' Elladan could not rein back his emotions, cold terror still squeezing his heart while relief flooded through his mind, and the two collided in an explosion of angry resentment._

 _'Elladan! This is unseemly and stupid. I have been a capable warrior since my thirtieth year.' The archer disengaged and stepped away; this was not what he'd expected at all and it undermined his efforts to generate fearful awe among the new recruits. A quick glance found them watching, dumbstruck and confused, as were the Rangers. 'You should be glad of such a warrior, such a mate.'_

 _'Glad! Ai Valar! You disregarded our plans and defied orders, placing yourself at unnecessary risk and thus my life in peril, too. Aye, you fight like a child at play. This is no run through the trees of Greenwood; you were an open target every minute of the battle.'_

 _'Enough! I did what was necessary, no more nor less.' He moved away from Elladan, noting Elrohir near at hand cleaning his broadsword, watching and listening. Even as he looked their eyes met and Elrohir's held mute apology. The expression stopped him mid-step and felt his heart trip and surge the same moment. He let movement distract his troubled gaze. Arathorn and Arador were hurrying forward and dismounted when the way was barred by the caravan's wagons._

 _'And that blaze of light, what was this? Do you always fight this way? Why could you not have told me?" Elladan was pacing round him, circling and ranting his accusing words._

 _'Is that what bothers you, that I kept something back from you?' Legolas challenged him, for between the two of them he had been the more forthcoming._

 _Elladan halted and raked frantic fingers through his hair and made a desperate noise of frustration and misery. The next instant he lunged forward and caught Legolas roughly round the waist and pulled him close, dived for the lips parting in surprise, fisted a handful of yellow hair, and drove the rigid evidence of his elevated temper against the Wood Elf's thigh. He ended the kiss in a gasp for air and peered into sapphire eyes suddenly exuberant with joy, smiled and wrapped his arms tight about the slender figure, pressed his face into the flaxen mane, whispered in a blushing ear: 'I thought you lost, Legolas, in that mad charge and that expulsion of faerlim. That is what bothers me, Beloved. Don't you know?'_

 _'Aye,' Legolas whispered back, rubbing gently the strong, broad back where the thundering of a petrified heart vibrated through his arm and into his soul, sorry he had caused this upset, yet ecstatic and moved beyond words. Lips and tongue answered physically, the language and the message the most primitive, the most exalted he could use. He smiled and exhaled a sigh of a laugh; Elladan's hand was burrowing down his leggings. He reached for it, but did not withdraw the searching fingers, let them caress his excited organ. 'Come away now, replenish me.'_

They stood apart in the place he had chosen, hands and vision touching gently, carefully upon a bruised shoulder, a hip grazed, a deflected blow to the chest that left a dark blue contusion over the heart, evidence of older hurts that defined them. In accord they leaned across the minimal distance dividing them and destroyed it, joining mouths and lips in soft, compliant yearning, affirming the bond between them, begging absolution for the contention neither could manage to eradicate from their union. They found they could not endure separation and the oral embrace continued, extended by a multitude of single, successive osculations.

Elladan's hands came to rest on Legolas' rear, cupping the firm flesh there and pulling him close against his groin. Legolas threaded his arms through the inky onyx locks and round his mate's neck. With a sigh he shoved aside the heavy hair and set hungry lips to the long column of Elladan's neck, marking him; his action copied with a soft moan. They indulged another lengthy communion of mouths and tongues and then simply held one another, enveloped in a private sanctuary that none could accost though they stood in the open for all to see, contented fingers roaming at will and pressing pliant flesh to reassure the reality of the encounter, heads bent together brow against brow.

It was an intimate scene, yet they were not alone. Most of the soldiers had left them once the confusion and strife of the argument melted under the heat of passion and possession, but not all, nor did they deplore to be observed thus, each proclaiming in this public display the validity of the bond and their mutual pride in the bondage it imposed. They loved one another; they needed one another. It was enough for the moment, enough forever more.

Elrohir watched them, aware of Arador beside him watching him watching them. He had watched the entire erotic episode, from condemnation to consummation, and could not remove himself from the vicinity.

"Our compact is null, Arador," he suddenly announced, voice taut and strained.

"What?" The Chieftain peered at him, disturbed from his lecherous wondering if the Twins were sharing the encounter in the strange way they traded thoughts and emotions between them. The idea gave him a thrill and he evaluated Elrohir closely for any indication that his guess was true.

"We will not do this thing. We will leave them alone."

"And Elladan's soul?"

"It is in excellent hands," Elrohir's words formed around a wry grin; for the Wood Elf was very busy with his brother's cock at the moment.

"Your interest in the sylvan has cooled?"

This slyly coached query earned the man a sharp stab from dangerously clear grey eyes. "My interest is none of your concern. Legolas will fulfil his part of this treaty and that is all you need care about. See that you keep your end and all will be well."

A faint grunt and a decadent groan garnered their attention. They turned back in time to see Elladan throw Legolas down and begin fucking him with joyous and forceful pleasure. The Wood Elf bucked and shoved to improve the performance to his own satisfaction. An abrupt expletive preceded Elladan's dismount as he repositioned his mate and raised long, lean legs to his shoulders, improving both access and control. Several excited cries followed after but once more he pulled free, changing his stance only slightly this time before recommencing the penetrating thrusts of hips and thighs, holding Legolas still even as his voice rose in angry complaint and he struggled to get free. Elladan increased his pace, his ardour enhanced by the clear mastery he maintained, and he soon spilled, relishing the orgasm in long, low moans of triumph. Panting, he remained inside his mate, smiling down at Legolas frowning countenance and disparaging words even as he played tenderly with the sylvan's lax penis, deliberately rolling it into the sticky residual evidence of mutual pleasure smeared on the sylvan's belly.

"Let us go from here," Legolas spoke without rancour but with full knowledge of the watchers.

Elladan looked up and met his brother's gaze as he answered. "Nay, this is the place you chose, and they are leaving now."

"That is our dismissal," Elrohir grabbed Arador at the shoulder and pulled him along as he strode off. He did not let go and the man's efforts to free himself were deftly cancelled. When they had removed themselves a suitable distance such that both sight and hearing were beyond range of the loving couple, he shoved the heir of Elendil hard away from him. "Hear me; you will not hinder them in any manner. What we discussed is null, I say."

"No reason to be violent, Elrohir," Arador castigated him. "The ploy was yours; I had not reason to desire its realisation. If you say it is to be abandoned, then it is so."

"Good." Elrohir studied him carefully and noted that Arador was attempting deceit. Fury flooded his mind with a number of options and his desire to impress upon the Dúnedan the foolishness of such a course played out in vivid images, but he suppressed this urge. There was an easier way to ensure the man had no hold over him. He turned and left him there, opening a link with his brother as he walked.

 _Muindoren, we must tell Legolas about this._

 _Nay, he is opposed to the idea of you and me as lovers. If he guesses . . ._

 _You mishandled it. Truly, you have no tact, for you upset him needlessly and deprived me of what is rightly mine to claim._

 _Your right? You had nothing to do with redeeming him; he is mine by rights, not yours._

 _I meant you, but it is yourself you redeemed, not him._

 _Don't!_

 _You have to face it, Muindoren. You ave always blamed yourself for what happened to Nana. Saving Legolas was your way to . . ._

 _Daro! I will not listen, nor will I share Legolas more than I am doing now. You must be content with this; he will not agree to more._

 _You misjudge him. Talk to him, show him what we are one to another, and allow him to come to terms with it._

 _Nay. If I tell him I permit you to experience what we share, he will be disgusted._

 _Tell him that I love you, that I love him, too._

 _You don't love him, you only want him so to hurt him for taking me from you and me for putting him in your place._

 _If I wanted to hurt him it is easily done, and you rejected me before you saved him. Tell him what we share and that I would share it fully. You would have it so, too._

 _It does not matter; he will never agree._

 _You must make him understand. If you won't, I will declare myself to him openly._

 _That would only drive him away. If you attempt this, we become enemies, Muindoren. Is that what you want?_

 _Why ask me when you are the one who divided us. It was cruel, Muindoren, to leave me alone thus._

 _You need not have remained alone._

 _I need not be now, for there is Legolas to fill the space you opened between us. Say that you will try to convince him._

 _I will not._

Elladan shut himself off from Elrohir abruptly and the sudden isolation brought the younger twin to a stumbling halt. He had not explained about his plot with Arador and when his brother learned of it he was likely to make that break permanent. A surge of fear and determination chased each other through his heart; he would not permit that. Calming himself with a deep breath, he found he was near to the encampment and made his way to the tent erected for him. In it he paced, brooding on Elladan's intractability. He knew the love between them to be inviolable and the fantasies Elladan indulged during intercourse with his mate, freely transmitted to Elrohir, underscored this truth. It was almost as good as being with them and he viewed it as both an invitation and a deplorable attempt at consolation.

Nonetheless, the unexpected privilege had given him the first real hope he'd had in centuries, for unlike his brother he had not been able to stifle his heart by indulging his body's needs with others. He loved Elladan and only Elladan, until now. The notion that he might come to feel this way about the Wood Elf had been astonishing and arose on the day of Legolas' dive into the falls. All in a rush, he understood how his brother found means to replace him with the sylvan archer. He hadn't cared about the many lovers that supplanted his place in Elladan's bed over the years; they were nothing, mere urges spent. Elrohir stopped all motion, head low and heart lower, for that was a lie. He had cared terribly, suffered horribly, and if he hadn't loved his brother so much he would surely have learned to hate him. It was so rending to his soul he'd nearly chosen the fate of the Second-born, but had to reject it for then he would lose Elladan forever. His heart was willing to be patient, to compromise. As long as his twin remained unbound, Elrohir hoped to win him back.

Legolas destroyed that conviction and now, somehow, he brought it to life again. Somehow, the archer had closed the gaping gash in Elladan's spirit so that finally he could perceive his brother's pain. Elrohir was sure he wanted to rectify their separation, but simply did not know how to overcome the Wood Elf's ingrained prejudice against an incestuous mating. That and an irrational fear that he would lose both Legolas and Elrohir if he permitted the trio to unite; a fear no doubt spawned by guilt, for Elladan knew now how much his actions had hurt his brother. Reprisals were in order and he would be punished, certainly, and they both knew it, expected it. Beyond that, there had to be a way to smother both Elladan's unreasoning jealousy and the heavy burden of remorse. The archer's many charms were abundant, his gift for healing remarkable, and both were meant to be shared. For what other purpose had Elladan saved him?

Suddenly Elrohir's perspective shifted drastically and he saw that their way of treating with each other would not work with Legolas. He and Elladan shared a bond far deeper than that of lovers; they had access to one another completely in a manner Legolas could not possibly understand and probably could never achieve. Elladan was behaving as though the archer did share that total, lifelong, internal comprehension of his heart and soul. No wonder he was offended that Legolas could not tell the twins apart. Of course, Elrohir realised his own jealousy had only made things worse, and he had likewise focused his anger on Legolas. That ill-advised compact with Arador now threatened to rupture the tenuous bridge spanning the chasm between him and Elladan. He would have to explain and beg forgiveness. At least, he preened, he was prepared to own his errors and correct them. Why couldn't this stubborn Wood Elf and his intractable mate do the same? None of them would ever be content until all three of them were content. He sighed in irritation, hands on hips. Whatever was to be done, he would have to do it.

  
Arador watched the Wood Elf conducting a preliminary inspection of his new troops and had to admit, to himself at any rate, that he knew what he was about. Legolas was fully aware of the value his unique status lent to his authority, and he dealt with the men on terms they comprehended innately. He possessed a spirit of nobility Ages old in its lineage, owned a smooth, natural presence of superiority inherent to his race, his class, and his station, yet presented all this without a hint of arrogance or disdain for his rough recruits. He treated them with respect and they were astounded by it. He praised their efforts to work in harmony to do what he required, and their determination to excel doubled. He admitted frankly that he needed them, expressing genuine gratitude for their help, and they loved him for it. Most importantly, he obliquely referred, in words and manner and tone of voice, to past wrongs of which some of them were surely guilty, and utterly expunged their culpability.

 _'We cannot defeat what is already history, but we need not allow it to defeat us evermore.'_

That statement carried in it, unspoken but wholly intelligible, the message that he knew personally of tragedies, regrets, errors, and what it was like to be beaten down so hard and so far that rising up again required more than one's own strength, and more than one attempt.

 _'Others may wish to determine our fates and define our place in the world, but we need not acquiesce to such impudence whilst we have breath and life and strength to resist. Singly, we are vulnerable to those whims. Together, we know them to be false and can reject them and those who propose them.'_

In this way he subtly acknowledged their sense of injustice to have been relegated to the worst places to dwell: stony land that yielded no fruit, barren deserts wherein one fought to the death over a mouthful of water, low swamps teeming with insects and disease, frozen wastes devoid of green life. It was no mistake that he openly recognised that some who would keep them in those very hell holes were the Dunedain among whom they now served. His honesty stunned them and inspired them to cultivate the same trait in their dealings with him, with the Dunedain, and with each other.

Everything about Legolas was open, Arador reflected. He talked of his hopes as though they were already facts, assuming success assured now that he had these worthy allies to back him. He described the nation they were building, seeing towns and homes and farms filled with families, with abundance, with children free to laugh and play under the light of the sun. These ragged, downtrodden, dubious men of questionable character stood about him rapt in dew-eyed joy to hear it.

They believed him because he showed them what they wanted most in the deepest corners of their hearts, in the hidden places that were still soft, unscarred, unmarred by the life of hardship, oppression, and dark deeds all of them had lived to one extent or another. He saw. He knew. He showed them that what they had become was not what they were meant to be, and held out to them the possibility, nay the promise, that they could reclaim their true nature as beloved creations of Iluvatar. He took away the tattered remnants of their essential humanity and clothed them anew in the fullness of their original design. They beheld themselves in his eyes and were overwhelmed with the image of dignity and honour, strength, courage, and fidelity reflected there. They believed because it was obvious he believed, and his imaginings were accepted as visions of a truth forgotten, stolen from them by those who would deny them the right to live as men should live.

Lossoth, Haradrim, and Dunlendings, they made a motley group, faces cast in every hue from sunburnt brown to bloodless white, eyes formed in as many shapes and colours, stature varied from stunted to immense, weapons primitive, language course and tongues harsher, cultures divergent in every way save those most elemental. Each desired a better life, each regarded his own kin with affection, each had killed to defend them, and all had at some point been enemies one to the other. They stood together now comrades in arms, countrymen in future.

The transformation had come haltingly at first with many a skirmish among them during the formidable training Legolas demanded. He forced them to work together by making it a rule that anyone who would accost a fellow soldier must instead be prepared to face the Wood Elf in single combat. They were reluctant to do so, first from fear and then from horror, and each contest left them subdued and penitent, not just to him but to each other. There was elven blood spilled in these confrontations, for he would not raise up any weapon against them, and Arador had seen grown men, fierce, fearsome, primitive warriors, weep knowing they must do it, cast themselves face down in the dirt at his feet and beg him not to make them do it. He never relented. He insisted the offender tend the wound given afterward, voicing a stern lecture the while, and then granted forgiveness. They knew not what to make of their leader, no more did Arador.

Then abruptly their cohesion gelled during the first battle when Legolas put himself between his men and a pack of orcs and slew every one of the beasts. The men discovered simultaneously that they were all fighting for the same cause. Their disparate grievances were discarded and their enmity they cast off, united under one goal and one lord.

"Anzo, what is that on your spear?" Legolas paused before one of his soldiers, pointing at the formidable weapon comfortably enclosed in the warrior's fist. A man of the forgotten folk of the Northern wastes, the Lossoth, he was a giant who towered over everyone and had yet to give up the heavy, white fur cloak that announced him as head man of his people. He sweated profusely and smelled of the bear whose skin he proudly wore.

"This, Alboin?" Anzo smiled and shook the spear, causing the attached decoration to wave and waffle in the motion.

"Yes, exactly so," Legolas was also smiling, as were every one of his recruits. He folded his arms over his chest. "Now, I do not recall naming you the standard bearer for our company."

"Well, but he's tallest, so all will see it if he carriers it," answered another man.

"True, Sigdag, but since he is always using that spear just as Elladan wields a sword, the banner will only be torn and sullied within the first minutes of battle," Legolas admonished and murmuring nods affirmed his judgement.

"But I am wanting to carry it," Anzo complained. "I made it, so I should carry it."

"You did not make it; those great fingers of yours cannot hold a spoon much less a needle."

"But I helped," insisted Anzo. He was headman, his eyes sullenly proclaimed.

"We all had a hand in its making." Sigdag was his brother and feared him not.

"Let him see it!" another voice cried out and all raised loud their assent.

The giant reached up and took the corner of the drooping flag, spread both arms wide so that he stood beneath the blood red cloth. On it they had stitched an emblem cut from bits of rich velvet fabric of icy blue, and the thread used was a filament of mithril. It was a twelve-pointed starburst emitting rays of light, these highlights etched in the precious metallic strands. Below this design a word was stitched, Alfher. Legolas stood transfixed, lips parted, cheeks pallid, blue eyes shining with both pride and dread, for a powerful sense of doom had engulfed him upon realising they had chosen this symbol without his ever having revealed its significance. He could not summon words and the long silence was interpreted as displeasure; unsettled shifting and shared expressions of concern passed through the ranks. Sigdag spoke for his fellows.

"See, this is the brilliance of the Killing Light for which you are famed far and wide. And here, this word means elf army, Alfher in our humble tongue. It is meant only to show our loyalty and to honour you."

"Ai!" Legolas came to himself with a jolt, colour flooding his cheeks. "You honour me, indeed," he said and bowed his head. "Forgive my reticence; this emblem is dear to my heart, for it is the sigil of my mother's people, who are now all gone from Arda save for me and my grandfather. We are Noss Kjelepêk'lâ, the people of the Silver Light, and I am the last."

Now stillness descended upon the men, their attentive eyes and pensive faces trained upon him, and it was clear they awaited the tale, the story of their adopted lord's origins. They waited as the need to tell it warred against the pain of sharing it and the resistant possessiveness with which he held it close inside his being. They saw his eyes flicker to Elladan and there rest a moment, and in that moment they saw the decision coalesce, and a gentle sigh exhaled from them redolent with joy and self-esteem, for now he would make them his in truth, joining his whole history to their brief one. If they did not expect the form of the narration, it was no less welcomed, and if they did not understand the words he sang, they were no less appreciated and absorbed. For it was the same story all of them knew and all of them shared, of triumph and travail amid sorrow and rage, all of it going on and on and on far away into the deeps of the Ages past and forward beyond them, beyond into whatever time remained to be marked by the eyes of even their most distant descendants and heirs. When he was done and his tears drained the agony from his soul and left him sapped, they closed round him, shielding him from the sight of others to whom he did not belong.

"Elladan," he called the word quietly, the syllables fraught with a sad, poorly veiled fear, and the men opened for the raven-haired ellon. Enveloping them both, they moved in a concentrated mass to a place beneath a stand of trees where Legolas would feel safe, and then dissolved into pairs and quartets which in turn disbanded, drifting off in every direction until a wide ring enclosed the lovers' haven, and there the men stood guard.

Their number was forty-eight.

The wind rose and the standard fluttered and fanned, glinting in the sun, and Arador looked upon it with wonder, with jealousy, and with resentment, for it was not his.

  
Elladan tried to remain calm and aloof, to clothe himself in righteous anger and soothe his nerves with reason, but it was impossible to stifle the furious beating of his anxious heart or shield his mind from the humiliation of his situation. During the six days of his captivity, he'd made up his mind neither to kneel nor to bow before the Sindarin king, and he held firm to his resolve, head high, yet now that Thranduil was here, his presence produced an unanticipated effect.

"Leave us," the monarch ordered the guards from the cell and the two faced each other alone across the diameter of the circular chamber.

The odyssey terminating in this confrontation had not been uneventful for the Imladrian lord.

Stripped of weapons and clothing alike, his hands were bound at the wrists behind him, a tight strap of leather his only cover and that held fast his tongue. He had been run from the borders of Fangorn to this place on foot, chased and harried like a stray animal through the ragged foothills of Hithaeglir past Lorien and the Dimrill Dale, across the deserted plains of Nan Anduin, forced into the bogs and meres of Sîr Ninglor to make the crossing, under the eaves of the darkening forest, finally herded, foul and dirty and debased, along the avenues of Wood Elves' city where all those who had praised him just days ago stood in silent censure as he passed. Nearly two hundred leagues on foot, running day and night for ten days and now he was here, deep under the earth in this chamber of stone. He looked up; the ceiling receded into black oblivion and gave him the uneasy sensation of being at the bottom of a deep, dry well, or an oubliette. He looked down to see his feet on either side of a metal ring which was itself driven into the stone in the centre of an intricate star etched upon the floor.

The hunt had been surprisingly short and that was in some ways the most humbling aspect of the entire experience thus far. The Wood Elves had known exactly where he was and followed him for a day, forcing his direction so that he came to understand they had established warriors at advanced positions, indicating they had been observing him for some time before the trap was sprung. He did not believe Haldir had betrayed him, accepting that both he and the March Warden had underestimated the wily sylvans. The child had been taken away at once under terrific and voluble protest from him and from Legolas to which nobody responded. He had no idea where Legolas was now; he'd been handed into the care of his grandfather who rode off with him in haste, on Elladan's own steed, no less. The child, while distressed to be separated from his saviour, had not been averse to his kinsman's care and this was the single reassuring aspect of the ordeal.

He had not seen Thranduil then and few words were spoken to him by the capable warriors who supervised his journey back to the Woodland Realm. They made certain no serious harm came to him while caring little for scrapes and blisters afflicting bare soles and exposed skin. They fed him food and water, removing the gag for this but replacing it immediately if he began to ask questions or voice protests. After going hungry and thirsty the first day, he learned his lesson. Marched naked through miles of open terrain under the silent, indifferent observation of the sylvans, he had become detached from his nudity; paraded before the cold stares of the woodland people, his shame reawakened. It was a relief to be driven into the stronghold proper and find his destination was this circular cavern lit by flickering torches.

He could move about exactly three paces in any direction before his progress was halted by the length of the leather lash tied round his left ankle. This was attached to the iron ring embedded in the stone of the floor. Besides that, there was nothing in the room. It was a circle large enough to hold him with space left over sufficiently wide to prevent him touching the wall even if he extended his leg to its furthest limit. Two warriors remained in the cell at all times and watched him with impassive faces and disdainful eyes, their swords held ever at the ready. There was a change of the duty every six hours, but the assignment was shared between the same six ellyn, all dressed in the simple livery of the King's Guard. He came to hate them passionately.

There was no place for him to rest; he must sit or stand or lie upon the floor. His hands were never loosed and he had to submit to being fed by his captors at a time of their choosing. This had mortified him on the journey and he'd been glad Legolas was gone and could not witness it, but he was used to it now and kept his eyes averted during the process. New abasement awaited in his new environment, for the room had no accommodation for relieving his body of wastes. This was a source of burning humiliation he had not considered out in the natural world of air and light, where the warriors led him to bushes and trees when need demanded. Urination was less an issue even here for he took care to direct the stream as far away from himself as possible, but to defecate he was forced to select a place within the circumference of his confining circle and squat. While he thought that the height of his degradation, it was further enhanced by the fact that no one bothered to remove the feces.

Six days he suffered this demoralising, passive abuse and on the seventh Thranduil entered the chamber.

Regal, imposing, immaculate in his robes of state and his glossy crown of green and red, the king waited until the door was shut and then locked it himself, left the key in the slot, then turned to survey his prisoner closely. He walked the perimeter of the room, nodding at the evidence of life's most basic functions with satisfaction. "You have been adequately nourished." He met the blazing fury in Elladan's eyes with a sneer and a slow shake of the head. "You think yourself ill-used, Peredhel?" Of course, no answer was possible with the tongue thus restrained so he supplied his own. "Nay, we have given deference to your rank and heritage. Still, you are not considered particularly marvellous here despite your exalted House. In my world, you will be judged by your actions." He stopped before the portal and observed all the unspoken curses and revilements that were nearly choking the raven-haired lord. "You have been so cruel, so heartless that I hardly know how to understand you."

His voice wavered, bewildered and aggrieved, his clear eyes stricken with a drowning, abyssal sorrow, and Elladan was shocked out of his indignant wrath and stood staring. The next instant his head dropped; he could not bear to see the pain in those tormented eyes, and suddenly the magnitude of his disgrace inundated him. Here was a new definition of dishonour and one with which all his House was now tainted.

"Ah, so you see it at last," Thranduil acknowledged Elladan's remorse, but sounded dispirited, disappointed, and tired. "Too late you see it, long after the harm is done. Yet, even now all you comprehend is the harm accruing to you and yours. What you have wrought upon my world you care nothing about." He watched to learn if this would produce any response, but Elladan remained frozen, face to the floor, shoulders rising and falling quickly in his mounting distress. The King sighed heavily and reached up to his brow, removing and casting aside the crown of holly. The motion and the sound of it drew his captive's attention and Elladan finally looked up as he removed his formal robes and then his ornately embroidered silk tunic. He stood in leggings and sleeveless undershirt and unbuckled the mighty sword from which he was never parted, setting it with care against the oaken door. This left him with a dagger at his waist and he drew it.

"Do you understand what you have done?" he asked calmly, stepping closer as he did. So fierce was the anguish in his eyes that Elladan fell back from him at first until Thranduil snatched hold of his arm to prevent further retreat. With a quick flick of the wrist he cut the leather gag and shoved Elladan back roughly. "Answer!' he demanded, respiration rapidly as his rage built.

Elladan spat the strap from his mouth and licked his lips carefully, eyes on the naked blade in the monarch's fist. "Aranen, I did as I thought best for the child."

"What you thought best?" Thranduil scoffed. "What strange thoughts you must entertain to think it best to rip apart a family already so sorely wounded." He motioned with his free hand for Elladan to approach him, but the ellon would not. Again he released an irritated huff and came to collect his prisoner, grabbing his biceps and spinning him round. He sliced through the remaining bonds and again pushed Elladan out of reach. They stood in silence as the King watched him rubbing his arms and hands and wrists to restore circulation. Finally Elladan lifted wary eyes to his.

"What is it you want?" he asked.

"Want?" Thranduil blinked, the notion so absurd he couldn't get past that aspect of it for a moment, and then his face contorted in a vicious scowl as he pointed with the dagger. "I want my son."

"You have him."

"Nay, he is gone from me, perhaps for a short time, perhaps forever. None can predict, or else they fear to tell me the truth. What say you to that, Elladan of Imladris? Why did you take Legolas away from me?"

"I . . . he said he . . ."

"No!" Thranduil thundered, such horrible torment in his face and his broken roar that Elladan flinched. "He was mine. My son, my child, my whole world, my entire family, my reason for living, my hope and my faith and the only thing left that I love." This profession came out of him as though wrenched from his heart under great duress, which it was, and his rage could not contend against his sorrow. "I've lost him as surely as if he'd fallen that day, for he did fall. You brought him back, but only to keep him for yourself. What gave you the right to do this?"

Elladan had no answer; it was something he could not explain even to himself. "I came here for him," he tried to make sense of it. "I was brought here to save him, and that made him mine. He was lost, as you say, and I called him back from that abyss."

"And so you deem this means his life belongs to you?" Thranduil stared at him, judging this was as much of the truth as the Peredhel lord understood. He nodded and drew a deep breath, released it in a dismal gust. "So you bought him, light for light. That is the sylvan way, sometimes, but even so it is not done like this, never in all the history of these people like this." He began pacing rapidly before the door, the fisted dagger swinging in time with his steps. "You cannot own him; he is not a . . a pet to be kept or a slave to be claimed, but a free being, a child of Eru, and besides that Greenwood's child and my child. A bond like this cannot be used as a means of possessing another's very soul, Elladan." He stopped and stared at his captive, his expression earnest as though desperate to elucidate a difficult topic. "That is the same vile desire the Necromancer harboured."

These were serious charges and Elladan did not like hearing them. His back stiffened as the insult engulfed him, yet he restrained his pride and swallowed his bitter renunciations, aware of that dagger and the barely contained ire still boiling behind the cool emerald eyes of the woodland King. Minutes passed and neither spoke, nor would Elladan meet Thranduil's gaze, staring at the pattern beneath his bare feet. He sensed the Sindarin lord's shift to a more aggressive stance and tensed, but the harried father merely posed another question.

"Do you love him? Is he your mate?"

That brought Elladan's head up in a snap and he gaped, eyes wide in almost frightened uncertainty, for his mind went to his brother and the hurt he had caused in that heart. Now here were two more his actions had wounded to the core, and yet he was freely offered the means to expiate his selfishness. Again he licked his lips, weighing his options quickly. He could ensure Legolas' future happiness; surely there was no wrong in that. No one ever need learn of his union with Elrohir and he would finally rid himself of responsibility for the darkness their bond had visited upon the family, a bond he had cemented in the stirrings of adolescence. Thranduil would have no choice but to accept the situation, and in any case the king merely wanted a scapegoat to answer for his own failings, which must be grave for the child to indict him so soundly. Elladan made his decision quickly and snatched hold of that avenue to absolution. "Yes, Aranen."

Thranduil canted his head to the right and peered through narrowed lids at this person, studying the subtle changes shimmering through Elladan's aura, evaluating the spirit visible behind the grey irises, and then he shook his head. "Yes and No, as Mithrandir would say. I don't think you do love him, but you have claimed him for your mate anyway. You have enslaved his very soul. I must tell you I consider this a grave offence, for you do not seem to appreciate your crime."

"It cannot be a crime to save another from such a horrible end," Elladan argued. "I am not so unattractive a choice for his spouse; he will not suffer at my hands and besides, this rift between you and him was none of my doing."

"Dare you speak so?" Thranduil was aghast and shook his head. Again he raised the dagger and pointed. "You are already bound to another, are you not?" The answer was provided by the violent start and sudden pallor this insight evinced. "Oh, hurt to me I might have borne, you wretch, but not to Legolas. You will be punished for that, Peredhel."

Elladan swallowed, heart racing, eyes on the knife, body ready to meet the challenge about to commence. "It was never my intent to hurt him, Aranen." He assumed a defensive posture as Thranduil moved, but the king merely bent down and set the dagger upon the floor, sliding it over the smooth surface to rest at Elladan's feet before he straightened up. Their eyes met, Thranduil's sad and weary, Elladan's confused and wary. "What is this?"

"You are banned from Greenwood," Thranduil shrugged. Elladan seemed not to comprehend how many chances he had been given to redeem himself and the wronged father no longer cared. "Never return to my realm, Elladan of Imladris. Imprisonment in the dungeon will be the penalty should you defy my decree. Go and leave my son alone, for you do not care about him. If you do, you will have to find means to prove it to my satisfaction."

"Saving his life, his very spirit, does not prove it?" Elladan dared exclaim, felling bolder now that the knife was not in Thranduil's grasp. His arrogant words raised a hoarse growl from the king.

"Gwarth! (Betrayer!) Your way out is through me."

There was nothing more to say, but no action did either one take for quite some time. Finally, Elladan stepped over the dagger and attempted to force his way past the king. He was grappled and thrown down soundly. He gazed up at the king, who waited patiently for him to rise and try again, and wondered what all this meant. Was he to be let go or were there further reprisals in store? Slowly he stood and when he was upright Thranduil lunged for him, silent, powerful, and determined. Steely arms wrapped tight about his chest and Elladan was heaved up off the floor only to be slammed down with all the force Thranduil could summon.

He did not hesitate this time, falling atop him with an enraged shout as he doubled his hands into a mighty fist and pounded this hammer thrice against Elladan's breast-bone, punctuating the blows with raw contempt. "Thief! Abducer! Deceiver!"

Elladan grunted in pained protest and gasped, shocked by the power of the assault and the magnitude of the excruciation radiating through his chest. He saw the arms raised high again and feared the next strike would split the bony shield and puncture his heart. Instinct moved him to roll and he lashed out with his arms and legs, sending Thranduil toppling forward, nose against the floor, and Elladan grappled him, pressed his down. For a brief moment he held him and then a resounding bellow echoed against the walls and the king reared back, got his legs beneath him and with all the strength of his body propelled them backward, ramming Elladan into the rough stone.

Down Elladan crumpled, all air driven out of his lungs and his spine afire in tingling spikes. He remained there, open-mouthed to suck in a noisy breath, and received the toe of the king's booted foot against his teeth. He saw stars and tasted blood and that was enough to ignite his fury. Up he leaped and they fought hand to hand, trading blows and kicks and throttling compression from tenacious fingers each eager to win the bitter and vicious duel, twisting arms and bruising bones. Thranduil was enraged nearly to the point of murder and Elladan was fully aware of the danger to his person, determined to get free whatever the cost. They wrestled and pummelled one another, rolling in the filth on the floor, silent save for the grunts and exclamations wrung from them by fists that fell like the hammers of the dwarves beating on the stones of their anvils, each striking to ensure internal compression wounds of the soft tissues that would be slow and painful in the healing, deadly if ignored. The strength of each was legendary even among the First-born and so the fight went on long beyond the reckoning of either combatant.

They harmed each other dreadfully, yet neither would take up the blade nor break bones, making it nearly a bloodless battle. Perhaps Elladan's conscience smote him, or Thranduil's wrath outstripped his desperation, for eventually it became clear the king was inflicting more hurt than he received. On they fought and outside Anor rose and set twice before exhaustion wore them down to stumbling vertigo and ineffectual punches from leaden limbs. At last both sat hunched upon the floor, dirty and panting and favouring particular sore spots with gingerish half-touches. This impasse was never surmounted. With a harsh groan Thranduil at last hauled himself up and reeled to the door, turned the key and shoved it open. He staggered into the arms of his loyal guards and they escorted him away, leaving Elladan alone.

None of them returned and after a short period of rest, he picked himself up and stumbled from the cell, wandering in dizzy confusion as he tried to find his way out. He passed several elves, but none would aid him nor acknowledge his pleas for directions. After circling the lower levels thrice, he finally encountered the right passage and emerged into the cool air of night. Too depleted to continue, he collapsed in the courtyard and lapsed into a healing slumber. Dawn found him hoisted onto his charger, all his gear and weapons and clothing strapped to the saddle even as he was himself. Before he could do more than voice an incoherent protest, someone struck the horse's flank and Nirmë cantered carefully away from the fortress. He passed out before they made it out of the forest and when next Elladan opened his eyes he found himself in Haldir's care, clean and dressed and covered with blankets beside a warm fire out under the open sky of Nan Anduin near Rhosgobel. They retreated in easy stages to Lorien unmolested by the Wood Elves.

### Names and Such

  
Anzo - Giant  
Alboin - Elf friend  
Sigdag - Victory Day  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have made it to ten! This is a milestone and maybe it will not need twenty to finish. We'll see. My thanks to those who have read it and especially those who subscribed and left kudos :)


	11. Chapter 11

#  Oh, Sorrow

#### A Legolas/Elladan Story by erobey, unbeta'd

## Conversations

  
"I can no longer deny that his methods are effective," Glorfindel was saying seriously. He leaned over a map of Eriador weighed down with a stopper from a crystal decanter, Lord Erestor's inkwell, a finely crafted dagger the seneschal used for sharpening quills, and his own hand. They were all gathered in the seneschal's office this time; Elrond and his kinsman peering over his shoulder as he pointed out the places where skirmishes were rumoured to have taken place, though their intelligence was scanty. "He is using the terrain to advantage, at times luring the small bands of orcs into places where they cannot easily extricate themselves and raining arrow fire upon them. Other times, he tracks them for days, hunts them down mercilessly. In all this he is training his soldiers to his will, to his way of fighting. Men are beginning to come to him now of their own accord. He will soon have an impressive army at his command."

"He will need it for his actions are gaining the attention of our Enemy. This activity indicates not only the building of his army, but the consolidating of the scattered and haphazard foes the Rangers have faced before." Elrond was not pleased. "He has given them reason to band together, for the Rangers have not presented such visible opposition since the fall of Angmar."

"But is it to be his army or Arador's? I do not understand Arador permitting this." Erestor frowned. "I do not understand us permitting this."

"Arador was not well pleased with our censure, muindor, and hopes to advance his cause without the aid of Imladris," Elrond groused. "He wants Arnor rejuvenated and believes Legolas is giving him what he needs to do it. If you have suggestions as to stopping him, I am listening. Shall Glorfindel go out and take him prisoner, and my sons, too? What then? March him back to Greenwood? What is to hold him there if Elladan is here? Who knows if he would even be permitted across the borders of the Woodland Realm?"

"Well, something must be done," Erestor insisted irritably. "We cannot permit this Wood Elf to force our hand and push the Rangers into open war for which they are not ready."

"Forgive me, but have we not been saying these people need to become unified and motivated into a coherent and effective fighting force?" Glorfindel queried. "It seems to me Legolas is doing exactly that." The son of Eärendil and the seneschal of Imladris exchanged glances. "Well?"

"Beyond our belief that Arador is not the one best fit to achieve this goal?" Elrond demanded. "Surely you are not suggesting that a sylvan elf is destined to rebuild the fallen stature of my brother's people."

"No, but it cannot be denied he is a valuable asset and one we ought not to discard so quickly simply because of this vision," Glorfindel argued. "Legolas' influence is not necessarily negative."

"I do not condemn him, Glorfindel, but you must see how unnatural his intervention is," Elrond persisted, pausing as he was overcome with an unsettling sense of deja vu.

"Given our reconsideration of the Necromancer's true nature, it is not impossible that Legolas is being manipulated in some subtle way we cannot fathom," Erestor solemnly named the fear troubling them and then turned on his kinsman. "Really, Elrond, you should have just taken it away from him as soon as you saw it."

"Yes, I should have. I should have tackled him to the ground and forcibly removed it from his person while he was still weak and vulnerable from the expenditure of soul light he gave up to heal my son. While you're at it, just blame me for the whole ugly mess we are in since I did not take the One Ring from Isildur and destroy it at the end of the last Age," the mighty Lord groused and waved away Erestor's abashed apology. "Never mind! It is done and now I will have to try to correct my error." Again he felt the vibrations of his words echoing faintly as though from memory and shifted uncomfortably.

"As long as they are busy in Eriador, the Tower will not be challenged," Glorfindel asserted. "There is still time to act."

"Thus have my own thoughts been running. I do not like it, but it is the lesser of two evils. Ten years passes quickly, but perhaps we may resolve the Legolas issue if we set out minds to it," Elrond grudgingly agreed with them both.

"Let me go out to him," Glorfindel offered and utterly failed to keep the overtones of yearning admiration from his voice.

Before an answer could be made, a knock interrupted their conference and was followed immediately by the entry of one of the sentries, who bowed apologies as he spoke. In this way Elrond learned that Glorfindel had for once underestimated the situation.

  
"Have you truly never tried?" Thranduil asked as gently as he could, confounded as he was by the abrupt and definitive denial.

"No," Galadriel said roughly, aiming for haughty contempt but striking only upon uncertain quandary. She realised it and frowned as the Elven-king's green eyes widened, turned away from that look of eager cajoling. "It is not the purpose for which they were crafted. To attempt such is to challenge the Valar. I have no plans to contest against Vairë"

"How can you know for what they were made?" Thranduil objected. "Perhaps that is their sole purpose, to undo that which has been done against the will of Eru. Surely, it is worth the effort to learn if this is even possible."

"It is not possible," Galadriel insisted, wheeling about, hands clenched tight and raised up as though to strike him. "Such temptations I might expect to assail me from among my own kin, but not from you. Have you no respect for the laws of Iluvatar?"

"I see no aspect of this which disobeys any laws, much less those of the All-father," Thranduil was truly confused. "What can you mean? If a way has been discovered to unmake errors wrought by evil hearts, such means can only spring from the ultimate source of good. Is Eru cruel, a sadist? Is it the intent of our maker that we should suffer such death and division, body from soul, husband from wife, mother from child and parents from their beloved daughter?"

"Daro!" Galadriel cried, voice ragged with torment, and she twisted aside as though his words hurt her, covered her ears. "You are cruel! No wonder the child . . ." and she stopped just short of seconding the condemnation Legolas had spoken.

"Ah," Thranduil bowed his head, chastened and saddened. "I did not mean to be hurtful. It is my hope to bring us both to a place of great joy. It was the very power you wield that gave me that hope, revealed through a glimpse in the Mirror. Forgive me for causing you distress." He bowed low though she was faced away from him and did not see it. She would know.

He backed out of the glade and wandered amid the mighty trees, staring up into the heights of the Mellyrn, spied one of the Galadhrim archers watching him and smiled, caught a falling leaf and tucked it behind his ear. He inhaled and released a sigh, for he wanted her to at least consider his words, but feared she was too afraid of herself and the possibility of corruption in the using of the power she sequestered. "I would gladly give over my own life if that sacrifice could undo what I have done," he said aloud and raised his eyes again to find the archer still there, shadowing his passage through the woods. He motioned with his hand for him to descend, received a quick and silent negation as the ellon climbed higher, moved away rapidly. "Be at peace. You reminded me of my elder son, nothing more," he murmured and walked on.

"Thranduil!"

The call came from overhead, short and loud, the harsh syllables outlined in jagged animosity. The king lifted his face to see Celeborn in the limbs, the leaves and lesser branches dancing in the wake of his furious progress. He reached his kinsman's location and came down like a bolt falling from the heavens, wrath lighting his pale water-coloured eyes so that they gleamed, a glare sharp enough to cut. Thranduil raised his empty palms before him and lowered his head.

"I did not intend to give the Lady misery," he insisted contritely.

"I do not care what you meant to do," Celeborn hissed, "you have given her this awful, terrible lie, dangling it before her like a bug before a starving bird, but it is empty once tasted, devoid of anything nourishing and instead just makes the hunger more intense." The Lord of Lothlorien had his pointing finger in the Elven-king's face, scant millimetres from the end of his regal Sindarin nose. His face was livid, as pale as death in his rage, and the shadows of his own heartbreak gave it a hollow, bleached scull look.

"I apologise," Thranduil bowed, hand over his heart. "I thought only to encourage a remedy, nothing more. Can you truly blame me? Do you not wish the same deep in your innermost soul?"

"Yes!" Celeborn spat the word like a curse and lowered his arm. "Do you really imagine you are the first to wonder about it? Valar! Long have we sat in that vale and watched the scenes play over and over, different often enough to stir our hopes, but more often the same so that we are left in relentless regrets and endless agony. Think! Do you not understand? It shows us what might have been, a hundred thousand possible realities, none of which are true. What is true is what we have endured. We see what might have been had we only perceived Celebrian's danger soon enough, but we did not, none of us. I blame Elrond; Galadriel blames herself. Not only for what happened to our child, but to Elladan and Elrohir as well. This accursed oath they have sworn is like a blade in her heart!"

"Ai! This is wrong; she is not to blame," Thranduil shook his head. "Elrond's negligence is another matter, yet I cannot judge him," he whispered, "for I truly am at fault for Curoniel's death." His eyes were on his hands and for a moment they appeared bloody and rank with the stench of decay. The next moment he was choking on tears, trying desperately to swallow them, eyes squeezed shut so tight it made his head ache, and the weight of his kinsman's hand landed heavily on his shoulder.

"I know that you have suffered and what you have suffered," Celeborn consoled, his voice tired and drained of all but the most perfunctory sentiments of compassion. "For cause of that, I would excuse much and tolerate more, but this . . . Nay, Thranduil, I will not permit this. We will do all we can to preserve Legolas unto you, but anything else is not only impossible, it is blasphemy to suggest it. I will not have you speak of it again, else we will part in enmity instead of the long friendship we have honoured throughout the horrors each has faced. Please, I beg you, let it go!"

Thranduil nodded, unable to raise his eyes to Celeborn's, afraid to open them lest his sorrow overwhelm him. He allowed his cousin to guide him to a more private place and there he collapsed and gave vent to his misery in solitude, for Celeborn left him. Once his grief was spent, he lay upon the springy turf and gazed unseeing up into the heights of the interlocking branches, thinking idly how different was this forest from his own and why. It occurred to him that this was not a natural wood, but one altered and transformed by the power of Nenya, whether Celeborn wanted to admit it or not. The light was brighter, tinged with the gold of the leaves. The very air was sweeter, fresher than any he had ever breathed, and that included Neldoreth where he was born, a place touching upon the borders of Doriath and the powerful magic of Melian. Why should so potent a power be so strictly confined? How was it right to change the nature of green life, but not the destiny of elven life?

 _And I do not want to change it but merely restore it to its right course._

He stood and came to the nearest tree, laid his cheek against the smooth bark, pressed his ear against it. It was cool to the skin and just to feel it was reviving. He drew an easier breath and some of the tension left him. He listened, heard the murmur of the sap shifting in its core and the soft song of majesty humming in its heart, reverberating through the whole of the forest by contact between root and stem from tree to tree. It was a wholesome kind of magic, natural and pure, but also different from the song he heard in his home. Here there was no fear, no anger. The Golden Wood existed as though removed from all the rest of the world, and he felt this was the truth of it. Perhaps that was why it would not work. Could an elf be so removed from the rest of her kind and yet live? What manner of existence would that be?

 _Is that what Mandos is like? That is not life as I understand it; that will not suffice._

Thranduil stood back from the trunk and stared upward into the canopy of golden leaves. If an elven spirit could dwell in Mandos, if an unhoused elven soul could be stolen and debauched by the Necromancer, and an elvish feä could find refuge in the living body of another, if all these things were possible, none of which he doubted, then perhaps it was also conceivable to undo the errors that forced a life into any of those ill fates. He himself had learned the art of making and unmaking fire. The Noldorin princes had learned to chain living light to inanimate stone, and had fled Valinor rather than have that work unmade. _Physical objects that can be made can also be unmade. Why not the actions of the moment?_

Such small things moved great events. A single word spoken in haste or anger, its import known but its consequences hidden until it was too late, wrecked lives far into the future. Such ephemeral things, words, but so permanent their impact could be! One in particular seemed to carry the catalyst for every shift from good fortune to ill fate. Gil-galad issuing his haughty, rebuking 'no' to Oropher; Thingol's mocking denial of the claims of his dwarven craftsmen; Olwë's refusal to Feänor at Alqualondë, Feänor's 'no' to Yavanna that precipitated such bloodshed and ruin, all these negations created great catastrophes among his people. He had his own no's over which to dwell in profound regret and remorse, useless emotions that only wounded him over and again without granting any means to resolve his grief or amend his errors.

 _I must learn how to say yes and reverse the damage. How can I go back and say yes instead of no, offer understanding in place of anger? I have not the power in myself else it would have been done already, or is it simply a question of knowing the correct procedure?_

Thranduil paced impatiently, racking his mind for a clue to the answer, a means to reorder not time itself, for he would not be so bold as that, but merely the outcome of a single 'no'. Surely that much he could manage. All he needed to do was retreat to that moment and say something else, yes, maybe, I'll consider it, anything but no. He did so in his dreams all the time, daily. Surely he could step across the divide between his mind at that instant in time and the present one? He paused and wondered about the nature of time, so slow and persistent in its measured increments. Yet what was it? Some likened it to a road unending, twisting and turning into unseen and uncounted avenues of possibility, but mayhap it was a track with a fixed shape, a beginning and an ending, a place at which one had exhausted all time and came again to its beginning, or having come to its destination could simply turn round and go back to the start. Might he not go forward to that terminus and thus advance again upon what had been but was somehow yet to be?

The Elven-king halted and stood with hands on hips, eyes glaring at the ground beneath his feet, seeing it not, as he struggled to remember. He had read something of this once when he was a child. There was a scroll his father had carried out of Beleriand filled with the tales of the making of Arda and the thoughts of the Valar and their Lord Eru who made even them. Something there about everything that must come to pass having already been sung into being. If this was true, he himself had been created then, so had Curoniel, their lost children, and Legolas. He could not believe that he and all the people he loved had been designed from the beginning to endure such horrific suffering and loss.

The alternative concept was little better. Were all of them just floating along in the stream of the Music, pushed about in the currents of time like leaves adrift in a flowing river? Things that flowed were susceptible to changes in the environment, shifting course, losing or gaining volume, momentum, and force. He had turned the course of a river once; presumably he could return it to its original bed if he wished. Yet he sensed that the currents of time were simultaneously easy to divert and difficult to restore. It kept flowing, but like a river's flood everything in its path had been swept away and could not be recovered exactly as it had been. It occurred to Thranduil that, with the Keepers of the three Elven Rings unlikely to aid him, he had need of a wizard.

 _Minui naid minui. (First things first) I must retrieve my child and heal his wounds. Then I will mend this rift I caused and bring her back, or rather prevent her death from ever occurring._

He smiled, thinking on that day and the joy that would transform his heart and heal his son's shattered soul. Out of the secluded thicket he strolled, elevated in spirit as he contemplated these pleasing scenes, hearing the words and the laughter and experiencing the love and happiness inherent within his fantasy. He did not consider it such; Thranduil poured himself into the making of this future that was the past that should have been, believing that even as he built it, so it would transpire. It must be so; Eru would not summon Music that brought death, destruction, tragedy and ruin to the children whom he loved.

He remained in this other world many days and the Galadhrim thought he had passed into fading. Even Celeborn thought so, unable to elicit any sign of recognition from his cousin, disturbed by the dreamy smile that never left his clouded eyes, his refusal of food and drink. Thranduil seemed to be lost in dreams and Galadriel cautioned that he should be left to whatever peace he had conjured for himself. The Lord of the Golden Wood wondered if he might not have to foster Thranduil's son and whether the child could be saved from a similar fate. It went on until the king's guards returned with word of Haldir's location, and then Thranduil's green eyes cleared to brittle brilliance. He politely excused himself from his kinsman and went home.

  
The carnage was extensive, spanning leagues of land deep into the vast emptiness of Cardolan, a bloody trail of death that ended in a small declivity into which the forces of darkness had been driven and were now being systematically slaughtered to the very last one of them. Thranduil could not be sorry about it, but the scale of the battle ground was beyond what he had expected to discover. He had come upon the beginning of it two days out and now the victors were gathered in a great throng despoiling the corpses amid loud clamour and indescribable violence, spending their sorrow and rage on the dead and the dying. There were not so many warriors here at the end; he had passed through no less than four contingents along the way, three of them comprised of a mixture of Rangers and other men of uneasy origins. These individual columns were led by Arathorn, Halbarad, and Elrohir. Arador commanded the fourth, an elite force comprised of only his countrymen. The Dúnedan turned to stare in mute wonder as the Elven King and his countrymen passed, he and Galion and his two loyal guards, but Thranduil did not heed his regard.

He paused but briefly to trade a word with Elrond's son, demanding to know the whereabouts of his own, learning only then that it was in fact Elrohir to whom he spoke, told Elladan and Legolas were at the front, chasing down the last of the rabble. Anxiously Thranduil scanned the field as he neared the fighting and exhaled a relieved breath as he perceived the raven-hair of the elder twin as he moved determinedly through the destruction, broadsword flashing as he quickly ended the suffering of the fallen before the enraged soldiers could reach them. He was hurrying, eager to get to the centre of the conflict where a small, tight knot of warriors formed a living barrier between the host at large and Legolas, a giant of a man beside him holding high a standard that fanned and rippled in the gusting wind, silver and blue.

Even as he watched, his son moved quickly out of the chilling scene, leaped upon a white crag crowning the hilltop, and called a halt to it all. He was instantly obeyed and the fighters gathered close around the wind-whipped pinnacle, their voices silenced that they might listen to their Lord, eyes focused upon him in reverent awe, absorbing his accolades and accepting the reward he offered, the distribution of the lands they had just cleared, accepting it with loud praises and thanks tendered in the hammering of swords against shields and the shaking of spears, gory and dripping, high above their heads. From the tall standard bearer a bellow rang out and the whole force assumed ranks at strict attention, ignoring fatigue, feeling not their bleeding wounds, and for an instant stood quiet, every eye upon the Wood Elf, and then in one mighty voice gave such a shout of affirmation that the cheering seemed endless.

Legolas received their homage as his due, saluting them and then the battle flag with his bloody long-knife, golden hair streaming behind him, garments befouled with the refuse of warfare, eyes bright and visage transformed as though drunk with ecstasy wrought of the killing. He raised his bow aloft and his aura, clinging as close about him as a cloak, ignited in a corona of pale blue flame; the shouting intensified to a frenzied pitch. He lowered it and they grew quieter, kneeling on the ground as they began chanting in chorus an oath of fealty and devotion to the Lord of the House of the Silver Light. Elladan climbed up beside him and the men jumped to their feet, erupting in elation as he encircled his waist with possessive fervour and kissed him, heaving him up and bearing him away from the filth and defilement. The soldiers did not follow, turning to begin the trek back to rejoin the main army, aiding the injured among their comrades, assuming an ordered procession as they exited the filed of victory. Their number was one hundred forty-four.

"Well, that's a sight to behold," drawled Galion. He shared with Thranduil his smug pride and found the same expression moulding the King's features.

"And why not? He is the best we have; to such as these he is a god," Thranduil bragged, unable to contain himself.

"Better, for he is more accessible and exerts himself fully on their behalf," opined one guardsman.

"Here they come," remarked the other, and they turned to watch the rapid approach of a phalanx of warriors, all men save for Elrohir. They drew rein in a loose circle about the intruders and Thranduil arched an amused brow at Elrond's son, who frowned at this levity and shook his head. The silent exchange was not lost on Arador, who reacted with a surge of indignation and suspicion, for he was Lord in Cardolan.

"What is the Elven King of Mirkwood doing in these lands?" demanded the deposed and discrowned king, disturbed to have such a visitor at such a time. Legolas had been regaling his recruits with stories of his father until the Lossoth deemed him a hero. All of them knew that it was through Thranduil's resources, not Arador's, that their work was made possible. More, as the father of their chosen Lord, he had become their own king and earned their allegiance by right of having spawned their beloved captain.

"It is Greenwood, if you please, and it is proper to greet a visitor with better courtesy, particularly a visiting head of state," reminded Galion coolly.

"It is proper for one head of state to consult another before crossing his borders," Arathorn retorted. "By what right does the Elven King invade the lands of Arnor?" He would not call it Greenwood, in his petulant ire, for he knew it no longer was and cared not for the feelings of these elvish interlopers.

"Arnor is fallen," announced Thranduil quietly, "and unless my eyes deceive me, that is my son yonder who attempts to raise it up again. No?" The Dúnadan and his heir shifted in their saddles, dark glowers attending their discomfort, and the thoughts shared between them were as plain as if they'd been spoken. "Aye, you regret your diplomacy now and wish you had never signed a treaty with Legolas of Greenwood, fearing what it may now mean to be allied to so powerful a being as he. You see how these people have pledged their very lives to him, heart and soul, breath and body. There is nothing he could ask of them that they would refuse, even to disposing of you and all your Rangers." Thranduil smirked at the horrified expressions overtaking the men's faces and shook his head. "Yet you need fear nothing, for Legolas has no desire to rule a land of men."

"I do not doubt you," said Elrohir, "and I at least recall why he has come here. Forgive me, Aranen, but is it not true that he was forced to resort to these methods because you opposed his will?"

"Insolent Noldo!" growled Galion, but Thranduil raised a restraining hand, smiling.

"No insults shall we trade here, Adar-en-Gwaedh, (Bond-father) and neither is forgiveness required, Elrohir Elrondion. You have only spoken what is true and I do not fear to own your charges. I am here to rectify my errors, nothing less." He turned his glittering green eyes upon Arador. "Nothing more."

Uneasy quiet filled the minutes transpiring between them even as the space beyond the Ranger's loose barricade gradually succumbed to the influx of the the woodland archer's army, his Lossoth foremost in the ranks, the standard bearer brazenly shoving forward until he came face to face with Thranduil. They gauged one another closely, seconds of intense scrutiny traded eye for eye and all were astonished at the humble man's ability to withstand the steady inspection of the Sindarin lord, and then Thranduil smiled. The headman fell instantly to his knees, head bowed, his grip upon the spear so fast his knuckles whitened.

"Arise, Maethor Vrand (noble warrior), and tell me your name," the king bade him and the giant stood tall, proud and pleased to hear the same words describe him that Legolas was wont to use, for he had been told their meaning.

"Anzo, oh exalted father of the Silver Star," he announced in reverent tones, a huge grin transforming his rough features. "I am headman of my people and headman for Lossoth o Legolas."

"I am honoured to encounter you," Thranduil bowed his head regally. "Will you take me to my son?"

Now the headman exchanged nervous glances with his brother Sigdag and muted tittering ruffled through the weary men.

"You had best wait," the younger Twin warned. "Legolas does not like to be disturbed after battle, for a time. No more will the Lossoth permit you to draw near to him."

"No, he misspeaks!" Anzo gruffly challenged, eyes sharp as they cut the air to land briefly upon Elrohir. On him their Lord shed none of his light and consequently the Lossoth loved him not. "We honour our Lord's desires, but we will not defy the word of his father. You are never in any danger of interference in any of your actions from us, oh mighty King of Elves under the Trees." The men murmured their approval and Anzo bowed deeply. "Only, what Pergam Daid (Half-hand Second) says is true, in part. Legolas likes to be with his mate after fighting, for a time."

Thranduil's eyes expanded at this uncharitable designation of Lord Elrond's second son and his notice made Elrohir's cheeks flush in chagrin, but it was to the latter half of Anzo's explanation the King replied. "As it is fitting for him to do. Take me then to a place where I may rest and tend my worthy mount, for we have travelled far and are weary."

"I will lead you to Legolas' own tupik," Anzo attested and turned to show the way only to be challenged by Arador.

"Surely I can offer you better accommodation," assured the man, inclined now to be more forthcoming in his manners as it seemed the Sindarin lord meant to retrieve his son. The army Legolas had made would, after all, remain behind in Eriador, save the Lossoth, and he cared nothing for them. "Permit me, King Thranduil, and I will vacate my pavilion for your use for as long as you remain among us."

"I thank you," Thranduil smiled on the man without a smidgen of warmth, "but whatever is fit for my son is more than adequate for me. Galion, however, is my law-father and an Elder among our people; your hospitality is graciously accepted on his behalf." So saying, Thranduil leaped from his horse's back and joined the tall headman of the Lossoth, looking up into the grizzled and time-worn face with approval and admiration, eyes bright where they glanced upon the simple standard. They walked on side by side, the Lossoth troops surrounding them on all sides as they went, dividing the King from his own and from Arador, but Thranduil was content and felt no fear. "I know of your long loyalty to these folk," he said, "and share your disappointment that others do not."

"Ah, that is no matter," Anzo shrugged, but clearly he was flattered to learn this noble person was aware of his history. "Legolas is repairing all of that. In time, our honour will be returned to us and our efforts are already rewarded. See!" He extended his arm to encompass the surrounding landscape. "All of this he gives to us, and the Lossoth will take good care of the land we have bought with our spears."

"Though, it is still difficult to like the taste of this running meat," added another of the North Men, shaking his head, and many agreed with his judgement.

"Aye, there are no seals here and the bears are small and few. We dare not slay them, for Legolas has told us that not all bears are as they seem."

"We do not understand that, but he assures us some of these beings are half bear and half man, and so we must never make food of them."

"And as even he cannot tell them apart, we do not hunt the bear in these lands."

All this came easily and freely from among the crowd of men, the soldiers speaking with the exalted Sindarin lord just as they would with his son, for Legolas had taught them not to place division between himself and the rest of them, naming them Children of Eru just as was he. Where their brothers among the edain had treated them with scorn and derision, naming them cowardly to hide away in the frozen wastes so to avoid the hardship of war with the Enemy, Legolas had returned to them the true dignity of their race. He behaved with respect in all his dealings as a matter of course, something anyone and everyone should do, one to another, regardless the land from which they had sprung. Thranduil was not accustomed to this manner of interaction even among the sylvan people, save perhaps with his two loyal guardsmen, but considered this prejudice a part of his attitude that must be altered if he were to rectify the errors that had introduced so much strife between him and his son. He adjusted quickly and seamlessly to the situation and found it not unpleasant to be privy to these open and honest observations.

"Truly, we practise the same constraint in Greenwood," he nodded sagely. "I, too, dislike the flavour of deer and find fish and fowl to be more palatable game."

"Oh, not our Silver Star," laughed Sigdag, never far from his brother's side. "He is partial to the hare."

"Yes, ever since he was a small child," laughed Thranduil.

So it went and the Sindarin King learned all about his son's exploits on the long walk back to the clean land where the bivouac had been established some distance from the gruesomely defiled battleground. Yet when they arrived at the simple tent set up for Legolas, it was not empty and while Elladan was with him, they were not engaged in amorous activity. It was discovered that the archer had been wounded and lay in quiet agony as his mate tended the hurts, and Thranduil would not be barred from entering in. He found Legolas sprawled across the bedding, eyes screwed shut as he bit ferociously upon the shaft of an arrow even as Elladan cut free the one drilled deeply into his shoulder. A sharp, short groan escaped the clenched jaws, the arrow snapped beneath his teeth, and his chest heaved in the effort to confront the pain.

"It is out," Elladan told him softly as he cleaned the gaping hole, displeased with the amount of blood flowing as he pressed the heel of his hand hard upon the wound. The pressure raised a second moan and the weary golden head lifted as blue eyes popped wide, glaring at him. He smiled in apology. "Must be done."

Legolas shut his eyes and let his head drop back against the pillow, grunting his displeasure and fisting the thickly padded pallet under his fingers. He wanted to tell Elladan the bolt was probably poisoned, but could not make his mouth obey him. Everything became heavy and hot, events and time grew disordered and distorted, vague impressions flitted through his brain: someone removing his boots, hands lifting his body carefully but not carefully enough; he cried out but even that noise sounded blunt and muffled to his hearing. He tried to open his eyes, for a voice he knew made it across the barrier between reason and pain, but hadn't the energy. He knew he was drifting into a deep healing slumber and dared not fight it, trusting Elladan to take care of him.

"Come now, open your eyes for me, Legolas, and let me see that you are truly healing," Thranduil urged softly, fingers barely ghosting over the thick bandage strapped round his son's torso. He rested them on the restrained arm, touching the lethal fingertips poking free of the sling; they twitched and a soft moan issued from the pale, haggard face. Eyelids fluttered but remained drawn down. The worried father frowned. "That was incredibly brave, but foolish, ionen. Why did you do that?" Again there was a half-hearted effort to achieve consciousness and Thranduil was encouraged; he redoubled his efforts, employing the one tried and true method of reviving his son at such times. "Sacrificing yourself will not save her." The blue eyes snapped open, gleaming with angry outrage.

"You!"

"Yes, I am here, ionen," Thranduil smiled, heart lighter to look upon that familiar, accusing glare. He bent over the prone figure and placed a tender kiss on the furrowed brow even as Legolas struggled to evade it. Thranduil held him firmly in place and rejoiced in the strength in the effort to shake him off.

"Ai! Get away from me!"

"Your word first, ionen, and I will let go."

"Given!" The word gasped out in an explosion of harsh sound, for it was a serious injury and his struggles were punished with bright flares of jabbing excruciation throughout his shoulder and chest. The hand was removed and the pain subsided to mere agony. "Ai, tawar nín beria," Legolas moaned, panting for breath as he felt along the length of the linen binding. He shut his eyes and swallowed.

"Indeed," Thranduil intoned, sardonic and sour, but he could still smile. Legolas was alive and the poison reversed; he would heal, at least in body. He sat beside him on the bed, one knee beneath him and the other hanging over the side, bare toes resting on the plush carpet. "Now, this must stop, Legolas. How many times does this make?"

"I don't know," Legolas spat. "You are the one who forces my actions. If you would do as I have counselled, I would not be here now."

"I know it, but that is not an option for me. I will not sacrifice you to save her, not now, not ever. No more will I permit you to do so, either; remove such considerations from your thoughts. You must not go back to Cardolan; it is a dire place like Aelin-en-Gorthrim, filled only with death and those already dead."

"Cardolan?"

"I have imagined another way."

"No! No more!" Legolas' eyes opened in frightened comprehension and he tried to raise himself. "Listen to me; I have brought down a Wraith and . . ."

"Nay, be still, be at peace," Thranduil shushed him softly, stroking the golden mane and lifting a silver cup to his son's lips. His offering was dashed away with the uninjured hand and he sighed, trained an admonishing gaze on Legolas' fearful eyes. "Now, that is foolish and wasteful. Do not resist, for the cure is worth the effects of the elixir."

"How would you know of those effects?" demanded Legolas. "I will not drink it! Listen, Adar, we . . ."

"I know; can you still doubt even now that I know? Yet, you will drink, realising what we can achieve through it." The challenge could not be countered and he knew it well. Legolas swallowed every drop given and sank again into oblivion. Waiting a moment to be certain the potion was working, Thranduil poured out a measure for himself, taking it in with one convulsive gulp.

### Eriador ~ 2921 ~ 

"I like you best like this, naked, bare skin all golden, kissed by the rays of the setting sun. You are beautiful in the sunlight." He ran his hand softy over the supine form spread upon the grass of the wind swept hill, touching warmth and resilience, strength and fragility juxtaposed so perfectly.

"Only in sunlight?" Legolas murmured his query, so deeply immersed in the glory of their union that he was loath to move, content in the sloth wrought of complete fulfilment, true felicity of body and soul, heart and mind. The caress was indeed like a ray of light dancing over his flesh, weightless and lingering, imparting a tingling heat that was pleasing and welcomed. He inhaled, filling his lungs with air still tinged with the taste of Elladan, and breathed out through smiling lips his mate's name softly.

"Nay, not just in sunlight," Elladan smiled and traced the dreamy expression shaping Legolas' well kissed lips. "In any light, in any place or time. But you are like the light of Anor, radiant and magnificent and gloriously majestic; you must be a child of Laurelin, born of auric luminance."

"Ai! Such compliments!" Legolas laughed, beyond pleased by these accolades as the traipsing fingertips ran up his jaw to tantalise his ears with feathery compression. He sighed and tipped his head to encourage the attention. "Go on."

"What, is that not enough?" Elladan complained happily, for he was exuberant. It was a rare thing to see Legolas like this, at peace and at rest, his thoughts far from the weight of the past and the burden of the future. "It is not just your beauty, though," he elaborated, the words almost breathless. "It is this tranquil joy our joining gives you that I like to see. I wish most that we could simply be this way together always. I just want to take you far from here, find a land where there is no strife, where sorrow has not touched you, and there keep you beside me for all time."

"There is no such place," Legolas answered, saddened to admit it, "yet everywhere we go holds some of that peace within it. I cannot mourn its lack much as long as we are together." He smiled up at the raven-haired warrior seated beside him, combed his fingers through the thick drape of unbound tresses, curled the digits within them and pulled, drawing smiling lips down to claim his. A calloused hand rested on his chest, the pressure familiar and faintly possessive, yet light and comforting, and when the kiss ended a soft sigh wafted over his face as Elladan straightened.

"I would make a home for us," he said and soothed his hand over the archer's lean torso, noting the fading traces of old wounds. That was one drawback to the brilliant light; these old marks were more obvious and it was distressing to see them. Legolas was too young to have received so many hurts in battle and it made his heart cramp with both fear and compassion. His index finger followed a long, pale line that curved round the slender waist and widened into a ghostly patch just under the ribcage. This had been a serious one and fairly recent, but Legolas never talked about old battles or old injuries.

"A home? Where?" Legolas watched him, relaxing under the tactile contact. It was good, this, a stolen moment, an interlude out of time, removed from the ugliness that framed their lives both separately and together, allowing them a glimpse of what should have been and might yet be in some other place and time. "Tell me," he pleaded, caressing in turn the sinewy arm that propelled that tender hand over the planes and valleys that defined his physique.

"It would be like this," Elladan smiled into the bright sapphire eyes. "Secluded, yet a fair land of rolling hills with busy streams laughing through the grass and clumps of trees for shade and fruit and the song of birds at dawn."

Legolas grinned, casting his eyes about, seeing not the hilltop crowned in stark, alabaster obelisks, but the refuge his beloved would craft for them. "Tell me more."

"Oh, there is always a blue sky there with high, mounded clouds of white and grey, and breezes that are cool and fresh, or else warm and soft." Elladan followed the curve of his hairline, permitted his fingers to be lured into the fine strands of flaxen gold. The thin ridge of braiding guided them back to the ears and he replicated the earlier exploration of those soft contours, raising a bright pink flood of colour there and a faintly plaintive groan from the archer.

"No rain?" Legolas swallowed, the gentle examination tending to increase his temperature so that his mouth was suddenly a little dry. "The trees and the birds won't like that."

"All right, there can be rain," Elladan grinned. "Not horrific storms, though, just the steady fall of needed precipitation in summer, and the silent, white veil of drifting snow in winter."

"Yes, that is what it is like, our home. Just as was all the world before any malice touched it." Legolas pulled him close for another kiss and let him go again.

Slowly, appreciatively the palm pressed, cupping pectorals, smoothing down the ribs and over his stomach. It rested there a time just below his navel, immobile, protective, speculative, _hopeful?_ and just when he was prepared to say something, it swept upwards again in a gliding rush of fingertips, reached his chest, and tested the firmness of his nipples. A sudden spill of hair coiled atop his stomach as lips and tongue sampled one small peak and then its twin. "Oh," he sighed a ragged moan, half complaint, half entreaty as the tasting ended and Elladan sat up once more. His features had taken on a strange expression of mingled anxiety and anticipation, the grey eyes gone dark in the foment of this feeling. "Why did you stop?"

"I would," he started but could not continue at first, licked his lips and scooted closer, took hold of the archer's hand, glance flickering nervously from eye to eye. "I would make that home for us." Elladan paused again, watching uneasy lines form across the archer's forehead, then drew breath and hurried on before he lost his nerve. "I would make a family with you, Legolas, if the Valar would grant it and you would will it."

"Elladan." Legolas groaned and sat up, disappointed to have this topic broached, their idyll ended. "Why must you do this? No sooner are we getting along than you choose to incite discontent and disagreement between us."

"That was not my purpose. I spoke from the depths of my love for you."

"That love always has a child in it," Legolas complained, "for I am not enough to give your life happiness."

"It is not through diminishment of my love for you that I want a family, just the opposite. It is the way of the heart to grow once love is introduced, and to desire to transform that love into life itself."

"I feel no such need," Legolas snapped, frustrated and displeased. "All I want is bound up in union with you; why is it not the same in reverse?"

"It is! Why must you always be so adamant, so angry?' Elladan asked, hurt to be accused of lack of feeling when his heart was so full he wanted only to empty it out into the soul of their child. _And you lie, for love of me is not what drives you._ "You won't even talk about it. Why don't you want a child with me?"

"You know why and I am not angry, Elladan. I just don't want a child with anyone."

"Oh, that's good. At least I need not worry over raising someone else's offspring."

"How can you think of children if this is how you view me?" Legolas stood and moved away, furious. He bent to gather his garments and began dressing.

"What am I supposed to understand by that?" Elladan remained seated and watched, determine not to go chasing after him this time.

"Always your words tear me down and paint me in coarse and vulgar colours. I have never been with another and have no wish to be, yet you say such things as though it is my habit to do so." He couldn't even look at Elladan, so much did this continual reference to his expected infidelity wound him, and stepped into his leggings as quickly as he could, tying them up tight.

"You always run when there is something serious to discuss, refusing to hear me." Elladan barked, shifting to put his back to the archer. "Well, go then!"

"I am going," Legolas shot back, face flushed scarlet as his ire mounted. He pulled on his boots without the hose and snatched up his bow, strode off down the slope of the hill, worked his arms into his tunic as he moved, shifting the weapons from one hand to the other, left harness and quiver dangling at his elbow as he hastened away.

He listened, hoping to hear Elladan's footsteps behind him hurrying after, but there was only the lonely silence of the sighing breeze. There was nothing to do but keep going. He perceived Anzo and Sigdag shadowing him several paces back and soon detected a quiet exchange of signals between the headman and the Lossoth warriors, a peculiar class of noises unlike any bird call or animal voices he knew, half chirping, half barking. He had already been taught the meaning within this secret battle code, though he could not properly duplicate the sounds yet, never having heard the natural cries of seals, nor set eyes upon such a creature. Anzo was ordering a new formation, the walking shield.

Over time, these durable men born in the harsh conditions of the frozen wastes had asserted themselves to become his personal guard. Indeed, the competition for this honour among his chosen recruits had been fierce and bloody. Unlike the long-standing grudges and petty contentions that had arisen in the beginning among this diverse group, Legolas allowed the contest, never doubting Anzo and his people would be the champions to emerge.

They were the most cohesive force among the various people allied to the woodland prince and never fought among themselves as did the Haradrim and the Dunlendings. They had immigrated as an entire people, all of them departed from their white wilderness in which they had long been content. The reason was an enigmatic prophesy Anzo had recounted concerning the fate of Isildur's Heir and their part in that great history, past and future. He revealed the token of that connection, given into the hands of his ancestor by Arvedui Last-king and passed down to him as headman. Though he pressed Legolas to accept this talisman, the Wood Elf would not, saying it was not a thing pertaining to him, but urged Anzo to keep it safe for the day when the prophesy might be fulfilled.

The Lossoth modified their arctic clothing, adopting a new uniform to set them apart from the rest of the warriors and the Rangers alike. It was made in the manner of Legolas' garb, though the adjustment of thick furs and hides into short tunics, vests, and leggings was comical to others. Legolas, however, praised them for their ingenuity and suggested further alterations, relegating the heavy bearskin cloaks to his officers only, Anzo and Sigdag. Seeing this, the Haradrim and the Dunlendings who belonged to Legolas began to array themselves in similar manner, each group retaining something of their native style but merging it with that of the Woodland Realm, and all of them took as their emblem the twelve-pointed sigil of the House of the Silver Star.

Legolas smiled, pleased with his soldiers, but the expression was cast in sombre shades and his heart felt leaden in his breast. At the bottom of the hill he turned towards the sun, away from the camp, and almost at once spied one of the Rangers crouched low in a thicket, keeping watch at the perimeter. He whistled the correct call and received its response, intending to pass beyond the outpost into the deserted plains. He was not expecting to be challenged and when the man rose and confronted him, Legolas was surprised to meet Arador's aristocratic countenance. He stopped before the Dúnedan's upraised hand, all the Lossoth halting in their tracks as well.

"A word with you, Legolas."

"What is it?"

"Alone."

Legolas' brows rose and he ran a close scrutiny over the man, observing a distinctly nervous and covert manner about him. "We are alone."

"Come now, your guards are in sight."

"What of it?"

"I would speak for your ears alone."

"I don't think it . . ." he stopped abruptly as the man leaned close and dropped his voice, eyes piercing, agleam with a light that was almost dangerous.

"Trust me; this is a private matter and one you would prefer to keep that way."

They stared at one another for a few seconds,s but both knew Legolas was curious and intrigued, so in the end the archer shrugged and raised his bow, motioning his men back as he touched his ear and shook his head. Anzo and Sigdag were reluctant to move too far away and he was glad of it, disliking the man's strange mood.

"What do you have to say to me," he demanded, leaning on the unstrung bow. It bent lightly under his weight.

"It concerns the ring you hide."

"So?"

"It is a dangerous token, an evil thing. I do not want it here in my lands, here among these lesser men where it is a constant temptation."

"It is safe in my keeping; my warriors will not see it until we cross Hithaeglir. You need not be concerned." Legolas moved off but the man grabbed his arm and held him back.

"No, that will not do." He let go as the Wood Elf's eyes fell in stern remonstrance upon his fingers. "These are not your warriors, Legolas; they are little more than a loosely confederated mob. You think they support you but they will turn against you at the first opportunity."

"I think I understand you," Legolas smirked at him, contemptuous and scornful. "You begrudge me the loyalty my methods have won."

"You are a fool if you believe that," Arador felt his cheeks grow hot despite his denial and scowled, raised a pointing hand to tap the sylvan's chest. "For one so proud of his command of the histories, you ignore the fact that Ulfang the Betrayer and his cohorts were the same race as these Southron recruits you have enlisted."

"I do not ignore it," Legolas retorted. "These men are not servants of the Shadow."

"What makes you believe your insight is better than the Noldorin elves of Beleriand, your betters?"

"It is not for you to name my betters," Legolas corrected acidly. "Why are you so bent on making obstacles, Arador? Are we not achieving what I promised?"

"We are," the man grudgingly admitted, "but I worry over the price I am paying for it."

"You are not paying for anything," Legolas reminded him, "my father is."

"Aye, and why is this? Why come you here, Legolas, to the lands of men?"

"I have told you."

"You have told half truths," snarled Arador. "You have come to men because the elves have refused you. Your own people know that what you carry is evil and will not lend you aid. Nay, not a single bow will they raise at your command."

"Enough! I will not heed these insulting words," Legolas bellowed and at once the Lossoth began closing in. He halted them with a curt gesture of his hand and once more made to pass the Chieftain. Again Arador stopped him, placing his bulk in the way to bar his passage.

"These are still my lands and my wishes will be honoured here. it must be either destroyed or taken to Rivendell. Lord Elrond will know what to do with it."

"Get out of my way."

"Not before we resolve this."

"There is nothing to resolve; stand aside."

"What is amiss here?" Legolas turned to find Elrohir at his side and such relief washed over him to see the irate expression trained upon Arador that he gave way and let him get between them. He smiled as the lesser twin pushed Arador back. "Are you mad?"

"Nay, you know what he carries, but he is too foolish to treat it seriously. He thinks of it as some kind of surety of his success, but it is a deceit. I want it gone from my country. Mayhap he will listen to you."

"Whatever your grievance, this is not the way to broach it," Elrohir rebuked him sharply and settled his hand round Legolas' arm to lead him away.

"No, I am done here; let me go," Legolas jerked free, disliking this intimate hold, and shoved past both out into the plains, bow raised high as he signalled his Lossoth to follow.

"Well?" Elrohir asked the man sharply. "What were you doing?"

"As you saw. What were you doing?"

"Following him," Elrohir snorted, folding his arms over his chest as he gazed after the retreating figure and the stalwart guards positioned around him.

"Does Elladan know you've become the Wood Elf's shadow?"

"What do you care?"

"I care because the situation is becoming more volatile with every day that passes. You would both have him, but he has made his choice. I give back the advice you gave to me: let them be, Elrohir."

"He has made the wrong choice," replied Elrohir, "and I have not hindered him in any manner, no more will I do so."

"Yet you follow him."

"It is only to see no harm befalls him."

"He has a loyal company of guards to prevent that," Arador argued. He studied Elrohir closely and raised his brows. "You are not so immune to my concerns as you would have me believe; that ring troubles you as well. Why have you not acted? At least I cannot stand by and do nothing, believing my people endangered by that thing."

"I have not acted because of the troubles you already mentioned between the three of us. Legolas would not heed my warnings nor would Elladan listen to my counsel regarding his mate. Yet your methods are strange, too, if you truly meant to convince him to give up that ring. I would almost suspect you of trying to make him reveal its presence rather than obscure it."

"That is ridiculous! I want it removed from my lands and from this campaign," Arador insisted. "I fear it is that which gives him his unsettling powers. Did we defeat Angmar only to welcome him back amongst us?"

"Legolas is not under the influence of Angmar's ghost."

"Perhaps not, but then whose ghost is it that prompts him to come here bearing such an evil thing on his person? From whence arise these strange manifestations of light about him?"

"What are you discussing here?" Now Elladan joined them, having trailed Legolas at last and discovered instead his brother and foster-brother engaged in contention.

"Your mate," Arador informed, knowing he surely must have heard them, "who wears so dark a cloak that his light is dimmed."

"Really? Yet the men call him their Killing Light, their Silver Star," scoffed Elladan proudly and glared first at the man and then at his brother, whose position in the argument he did not approve. "And do you share his view or were you ardently defending Legolas?"

"Defending him, since you will not," Elrohir could not prevent the jibe from escaping his heart. "You treat him with disrespect, Muindoren, that he has not earned. Mayhap that is due to the influence of the Wraith's ring on you."

"It is not your place to pass judgement on my relations with my mate." Elladan unsheathed his sword and assumed a defensive stance.

Arador's eyes went wide and he quickly stepped back. "Think on what you do!" he exhorted them, but it was plain the twins were beyond his intervention.

"Dare you draw sword against me?" Elrohir stared, angry and hurt, and drew himself tall, but his hand remained clenched at his side, empty save for wrath. "I am no threat to you; Legolas' heart cleaves only to yours, though little do you deserve such fealty and devotion."

"Aye, you wish you could have such adoration tendered to you, but I am the one who bought him, light for light. He is mine and you will do well to remember that, Elrohir." Elladan sheathed his broadsword, face crimson and eyes averted in shame as he realised the insult he had given, and turning away set out after Legolas quickly.

"What are you about, Arador?" Elrohir quietly asked again, watching through narrowed eyes as Elladan trotted over the empty fields. In this mood, what might he not say to Legolas?

"Is it not obvious?" the man complained. "You are both so caught up, so enthralled by this Wood Elf that you ignore the greater concerns. I implore you, Elrohir, to mend things with your brother and get that Wood Elf to give up the ring he holds. Can you not sense the change in the atmosphere? The Enemy is gathering all his strength to crush this uprising Legolas has begun and we are not yet strong enough to withstand the full assault of Mordor's might."

"Mordor's might?" Elrohir frowned at him. "There is little movement in the east at present, save the Haradrim who flee in ever greater numbers from the oppression they endure from their overlords. You were welcoming enough of this uprising until the men he trained bent knee to Legolas of Greenwood instead of Arador the Dúnadan. It is jealousy that spurs your sudden caution."

"Nay, it is not. I do not deny that I am less than pleased with the turn events have taken, including the homage these troops pay the sylvan prince. Even so, I am not fool enough to believe he wants to rule this region. Legolas will take away with him those who cannot or will not obey my will. It is not this which troubles me."

"Then what?" Arador had Elrohir's full attention again, for he spoke reasonably as he had not done for some time.

"Look where we stand," Arador urged him, agitated and incredulous. "Surely the memory of the elves needs no jostling from a humble human! This is Cardolan, Elrohir, and in this place there is a great deal of evil, even buried beneath the soil under our very feet, right now, right here. Legolas burns like a dark flame and hides an unholy beacon that will call that ancient evil forth. Woe unto us when we must confront it, for I am not sure the Dunedain can subdue it and these men your brother's mate has recruited are no match for it either."

Elrohir blinked and looked about him as though suddenly seeing in that moment the location upon which they were camped. He let his arms drop to his sides as he tensed, turning as his gaze examined the lands and his inner sight scrutinised that which eyes could not pierce. He breathed a soft curse and met the Dúnadan's worried face anew. "Gather the Rangers," Elrohir ordered, breaking into a run as he dashed after his brother.

"I have already done so," Arador sighed. He watched Elrohir's retreat, hoping he had not waited too late to awaken his dread, feeling in his heart that there was no escape. A great battle was in the wind, the air foetid with the stench of death and decay centuries old, timeless, and yet always fresh and new.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: CHARACTER DEATH, sort of.

## At the Boundary

### ~ Cardolan 2925 ~

"I don't want it to be like this. This is not as it should be," Legolas complained, disappointed and irritated. "I came here with clear purpose and put all the warnings of my kin aside for cause of that purpose."

"Ah yes, the exalted purpose," Elladan scoffed. He'd caught up with his mate easily enough as he was running and the Wood Elf was not. The Lossoth let him by and retreated to a discreet distance. Even so, he kept his voice low. "I thought it was me you came for, but I was mistaken."

"It was you; why else would I come to Imladris?"

"Aye, you needed me but not as I believed. You were meant to be my mate and stand at my side, yet really you wanted only a means to get at these Rangers and convince them of your mad scheme."

"It is not a mad scheme!" Legolas raised his voice and stalked away. "This is some version of the dream I know too well and refuse to accept."

Elladan shadowed him. "Dream? If only it were so and I might awaken to find I had not . . ." he stopped on a quickly indrawn breath, fearing what he was about to speak.

"To find you had not rescued a Wood Elf child all those years ago?" Legolas nodded, a darkly fierce grin marring his features. "Why did you, then? Tell me!"

"I don't know!" Elladan spat back. "I felt compelled. Indeed, never had I concerned myself in the affairs of Greenwood before that day." More and more he wondered over this for it nagged at his heart. He did not believe his will had led him there, but another's whose purpose was still unknown.

"Well, I am sorry that you did, for this life has been nothing but torment!" Legolas turned from him and wrapped his arms tight about his body, old soul-wounds aching miserably, new ones smarting like the cut of a knife. They stood quietly apart and neither spoke for some minutes. Finally Legolas sighed. "I begin to understand; I am not supposed to be here at all. I am sorry you have been caught up in this nightmare, Elladan. I have loved you since that day you called me back from annihilation and never intended any hurt or harm to you."

"What do you mean by that?" Elladan closed the distance between them, fearful of this open reference to hungering for death. He set a firm hand on each rigid shoulder and stared deep into blue irises awash in such pain he could hardly bear it. "Legolas, you were meant to live and not die. If I was called to Greenwood, it was for that reason alone, to save you, and my reward is this love you hold for me, though it has dimmed perhaps since I became more than a memory. Or a dream."

"My love has not dimmed, Elladan, but you feel it only through a great barrier, many barriers," Legolas mourned. "Your love for Elrohir blocks my way; your guilt for your mother's pain bars me. I have given to you all that I am, only to you and no other, and yet you doubt me and punish me for failings to which I have not succumbed." He unfolded his arms and gripped Elladan's forearms tight. "Why do you think I would dishonour you this way? Why do you doubt the constancy of my heart?"

"I don't, though I fear you are too young to know your heart's real companion. I am the first person for whom you have felt passion and desire, and because of that I worry that the day will come when you will find I no longer excite those feelings. Then you will regret that ring on your hand." Elladan did not resist when Legolas broke from him with a hiss of disgust and watched him pacing to and fro, arms tightly crossed over his chest.

"I have already come to regret it," Legolas informed him, "for you will not speak honest words to me. This excuse you give is insulting and tells me more than you might wish." He stopped and faced his mate, watching the shifting light in evasive grey eyes. "Can you not tell me what is really troubling you so much? We are here and we are bound, and I would make our union flourish. What is it you want of me? What is it you need, Elladan?" He was begging, whether the words said it or no and swallowed hard; if Elladan refused to answer, he did not know how he would react, and so he appended a desperate "Please!"

"I tried to talk to you about it that first night," Elladan began, wondering if he could actually say all this, "but you spurned me and turned away in disgust."

"Then it is Elrohir you need?" Legolas felt as though a great pit was opening in his body and through it his spirit plummeted.

"I know how such a union is viewed by the world, and I have shut myself away from him since the suffering of our mother. Still, he is ever in my heart and mind for we are twins, created of one seed in a single moment. We have never been apart and do not know what that means. Legolas, I have tried to forget him, to forget what we have shared, but it would be like forgetting myself."

"I know why you denied him for so long since you told me that, but I do not understand why you took me for your mate." Legolas wished the answer was different, but had always known it would come to this. He discovered it was a strange form of relief to have it out in the open and realised his reactions had hindered this revelation. "Ai, we might have come to understanding long ago and found means to ease this pain, somehow," he murmured dejectedly.

"And we may yet," Elladan insisted, taking a short step closer, hand half raised. "I have injured him terribly, you see, and not just because I claimed you for my mate. All the years since Naneth left us I have gone from one to another, sharing everything except my heart, and all the while he remained true."

"I am not surprised he hated me so much. As long as your heart remained free he hoped to mend things between you," Legolas sighed heavily and shook his head. "This is an awful mess, Elladan. I think," he hesitated, staring at the ring on his hand.

"No!" Elladan read his thought and leaped forward, grasped that hand with its golden circle and carried it to his lips, eyes peering at the Wood Elf. "Hear me out, there is another way. You understand already that I am bound to him, yet you cannot deny that also I am bound to you. Can you?"

"So I thought, and sometimes it seems that we were meant to be mated, but . . ."

"Then if my soul can bear a double bond, might not yours?" Elladan's eyes were filled with eager hope and he squeezed the long lethal digits tighter. He watched emotions swell and crest and drain away from the sapphire gaze, not daring to interfere lest he incite that obstinate temper he had come to know so well, for here was a new side to his archer's personality and in it he prayed they would both discover maturity sprouting in the volatile warrior's spirit.

"Ai, Elladan!" Legolas whispered in forlorn misery. "Never did I imagine it would be like this. I did not even know what it meant to be twins, for I have never seen any and the explanation I was told left out everything important that I needed to understand before I came to you."

He paused and looked down upon their clasped hands, close to despair, for he saw there were only two choices before him: endure the strife between them, which must escalate to who knew what end, or submit to a kind of degradation that must make of his heart a mockery. Underneath these dark thoughts lurked another even darker, instilled by his father's words so often repeated, reminding him that nothing had been heard or seen of Elladan since the day he was banished. Could Elladan not have come for him once Legolas reached maturity? True, he did not know his begetting day, but he must have guessed Legolas' age fairly closely.

"This is all wrong. I don't understand any of this," he spoke and realised they were back at the starting point of the argument. _Again._ "Why should I be made to live if this is the life I must lead, unless it is solely to avenge my mother and free her spirit. That, perhaps, I can comprehend, though it is a harsh punishment for failures committed when I was but a child, untried in battle."

"Nay, nay! What are you saying?" Elladan was exasperated. For him there was no shame in what was most natural to his entire being. That had come later, imposed by cultural mores established by people who could not begin to understand. The fact that he had tried and failed to break the bond with Elrohir supported his concept of what was right, and no longer could he use guilt as an excuse for hurting his brother so seriously. Whatever Eru intended for the hearts of elves, it was not based on laws of kinship but on love. Elrohir had remained true and deserved to be restored to his rightful place. _If he will forgive me._ Ironically, his acceptance of his love for Elrohir, his comprehension of the degree to which he had abused their bond, had only become possible through the healing granted by his union to Legolas. "I do not cast your love low," he insisted. "I revere what you have given me and would share with you that which is dear to me in turn. Elrohir is part of me; if you love me, and I know it is so, then you cannot help but love him also."

But Legolas could only envision a life of ignominy in which he was taken at turns between the brothers, shared out like rations or water to sate their needs. What of the heart could such an existence contain? Inconstancy was wholly dishonourable among the sylvans, as it must be for all elf-kind; his people had no words at all for one who became the vessel of pleasure for many, or even for two. He would not be able to hold up his head before his warriors; he dared not show his face before Thranduil or any of his kin, and never could go home again. _Save to accomplish that one duty and for that I need not enter my father's kingdom. Dol Guldur is not home._ He sighed, head dropping low, heavy with the weight of scandal and disrepute into which he must descend to fulfil that one goal. Elladan's fingers squeezed and carefully his chin was forced up, though he avoided meeting that compelling gaze.

"Legolas, what are you thinking?" Elladan queried gently. "Come now, you were saying we must have truth between us; do not hold back."

"So be it," Legolas raised his sight and searched his mate's eyes for that very truth. "I am thinking that you have spoken much of my love for you, its proofs and its potency, and of your love for Elrohir, but little enough about your love for me. It is not enough to enjoy the physical aspects I bring to the match, which I know you value. As do I, for you make my body sing, but that alone cannot sustain me. My soul hungers for you and goes wanting."

Elladan suddenly dropped the hand, drawing a harsh breath, for here was the real issue between them. Did he love Legolas or was he ensnared by less exalted emotions? He could not reveal the parting conversation with Thranduil all those years ago, but had to wonder how often Legolas had been advised of the words spoken then. _Surely Thranduil delighted to tell him._ He saw now his error in denying the problems inherent in their unlikely mating. He inhaled to fill himself with courage, reminding himself that Legolas had done nothing to earn the asperities in which he was encumbered. _It is ignorance more than anything; he had no control over the ways in which he was brought up._ He reached again for the deadly digits; held on with both hands, and spoke.

"I love you, Legolas, though I know to you it must seem a faint and shallow love, especially compared to the strength and depth of yours for me. What your father says is but partly true: I did buy you light for light, but that debt you have repaid in full by closing the old wounds in my heart and soul," Elladan began cautiously and at once felt tension stiffen the Wood Elf's frame even as Legolas jerked his hand free.

"Bought me! Adar has never said anything so base as that, Elladan, though he made it plain he thinks little of your suit," Legolas did not know how to compose himself; this was so unlike anything he had expected to hear. "I did not know of this great debt I owed you, neither did I ask to incur it. I offered healing light through the love of my heart, not to repay this debt. Beyond all this, a person cannot be purchased!" These words, too, rang through memory and time like a haunting echo, but Legolas could not capture more than a fleeting glimpse of the future events they invoked. A stab of panic seized his heart and set it pounding; he worried the bracelet of woven hair about his wrist. "Elladan . . "

"You twist my words and give them a tone never intended." Elladan found his resentment returning, for in his opinion he had conceded much to Legolas, and his confession became less than compassionate because of it. "Freely I gave what help to you I could, even to the point of dishonouring myself by stealing you away from your father even as you wished."

"Then why speak of it as a trade? Having saved my life, now you own it?" Legolas could not get past this and the ripples in the path to their future diminished and flattened.

"This is not to our purpose, this useless argument!" Elladan exclaimed in frustration. "We were to discuss the future of our bond and Elrohir's place in it. I hoped to heal the rift with my brother, but your rejection of that idea was final and I deemed it a betrayal. It is betrayal. I will not abide the contempt tainting your opinion of me, the scorn with which you look upon me."

"You enjoined a bond with me whilst already bound to another; that is behaviour worthy of contempt!"

"Nay!" Elladan shouted. "Stop, just stop!" He did not know how to account for it, but he suddenly had a strong, recursive vision of how often they replayed this same scene in different settings, never resolving the bitter dispute. "I do not want to go through all this again with you, Legolas. It was not my purpose to trade harsh words and accusations. I want an understanding between us."

"There is an understanding," Legolas countered. "I am your mate, but you are Elrohir's."

"I am your mate also. Try to listen and hear me!" Elladan insisted and his dire demeanour checked Legolas' wrath somewhat. "In order for me to truly become whole and strong again, I must honour both bonds. You have forced me to choose between my brother and you. Well, my decision is obvious, and for that sacrifice I expected a more gentle mate and partner, accommodating to my needs and wants. There is nothing about you that is gentle, Legolas, and my desire for a family you spurn with a fervour I cannot approve. Give me a child of my own and all else you might deny me I can endure."

"I have forced you?" Legolas threw back his head and laughed, a contrived and horrible noise. "I am at fault for loving you; I am at fault for failing to perceive, when merely a child, that you were bound to another. I am at fault for the hurt you caused Elrohir; I am at fault for the failing of our bond. What next will you lay at my feet?"

"The breaking of my heart!' Elladan shouted.

"How so?' Legolas challenged. "Not because I fail to love you. Nay, because now you want Elrohir back and I am in the way."

"Valar! How you warp and twist my speech! That is not true! I spoke of a double bond, not of abandoning you for him."

"Oh yes, we are back to discussing how you will share your possession with your true mate! Such a thing is unheard of among my people and a great sin, but you do not care to dishonour me thus. How can you dare speak of love?"

Elladan gave an incoherent shout in his frustration and rage, clenched his fists and teeth. "Dare you mention dishonour, you who have been driven out of your own country? And still you refuse to discuss the dearest wish of my heart: a family. Love should desire to replicate itself and yet you think only of death and destruction."

"What you want from me is impossible and illogical. We have opposing definitions of the word love." Legolas stepped away from him. "I do not understand yours and cannot embrace it. If I am at fault, as your words proclaim, then how can conceiving a child with me mend your opinion? How can you imagine creating life with someone you hold so low?"

"I do not think of you that way, Legolas, but I have needs that only you can fulfil. You are my mate and cannot in good conscience deny me." Elladan refused to hear the fallacies in his reasoning and clung to the notion that he was being deprived. Yet even as he heard his voice speaking these ridiculous words, a part of his mind watched in amazed disbelief; these were not his true hopes at all. Truly, he had never thought of children until Legolas arrived in Imladris.

"If you believe this is the way of things between bonded mates, then the only right thing to do is release you from the bond between us. I was wrong to come here and claim you for my own. Perhaps you are right and my reasons were selfish ones. I cannot give you what you ask, for I have made a promise I must not break." Legolas took off his golden band and held it out.

"It is not so easily done as that," Elladan growled, insulted that this was the result of his efforts to salvage the situation. "You are my mate and nothing can change this."

"But you are not mine," Legolas told him, "and I am more than property to be shared with whomever you may choose at whim, more than a convenient vessel in which to breed your young." He stuffed the ring in his tunic pocket where it clinked softly against the other one there. That was a jarring sound and he felt a strange surge sweep through his bones. He blinked and when his eyes opened a second later Elrohir was running to them, calling for his brother. It was too much; Legolas could not endure to watch their reunion. He turned and fled into the fields, giving the closest imitation of Anzo's barking call that he could, confident the Lossoth would follow him and create a barrier between him and the Twins, between him and everyone. So it proved, to his detriment.

He saw the ambush as though he walked far ahead of himself, perceiving his own running figure barrelling right into the trap even as the first arrows were loosed. _And me with my quiver lax and my bow unstrung._ He dodged and bobbed and dropped to the ground, crawled and rolled and wriggled toward a small thicket. An arrow nicked his shoulder as he strung the bow and he ducked lower; there were two groups advancing slowly toward his meagre cover. He heard Anzo shouting orders for a charge and knew at once that was exactly what the enemy hoped would happen. It was a feint meant to draw them in, and he was the lure.

"Anzo! No closer; there are too many! Signal for aid!" They did not hear; he repeated the warning in their barking war-talk and watched the warriors falter and slow. They were just outside bow-shot and again Legolas called a retreat. Obviously they could not hear him clearly from this distance. _Or they refuse to turn back and leave me to my fate._ Legolas cupped his hands and issued three loud whistles to summon help from Elladan and Elrohir, who could not be far. Then he bent his bow upon the attackers and stood to fire, drawing their arrows to mark their archers. The unexpected raid was no longer a surprise.

A troop of orcs and men poured out of the shadows of the barrows, raining death upon them, but the Lossoth would not leave him and would die to the last man trying to extricate him from peril. Legolas deemed this an appropriate time to unleash the Killing Light. That this, too, was part of the enemy's design he did not discern and was pleased to see how many fled in terror of the blast. Even so, there was no power to destroy in the energy thus expelled and this had become known to the enemy somehow. _Or the reward promised is worth the risk._ Not enough of them turned away even when he released the blinding glare a second time, and all the while the arrows kept flying and he remained cut off from his soldiers. They were making slow but steady progress and need only hold the enemy off until reinforcements arrived. Legolas sounded his call to Elladan again but did not complete it, pierced with a black bolt that grazed his cheek before driving into his forearm.

It passed through and lodged there in his arm, red point and black feathers a bizarre ornament to behold. Ragged agony coursing through the limb warned of a broken bone. Quickly he dropped to his haunches and broke the shaft, pulled the rest through, and bound up the wound. He knew at once it was poisoned and cursed his negligence in rushing off with but half his gear and barely dressed, for he had no antidote upon him. Still, there would be time to treat the toxin and sylvans were made of sturdy stock; indeed, he was immune to many of the more virulent venoms in common use across the mountains. When the arm began to grow numb, he finally comprehended that the snare in which he'd set his foot was a double feint. They were not coming for his army after all, but for him. He wondered who the archer was who'd made the hit and what boon had been promised for achieving ti, suppressing fears spawned by vivid memories. He could not draw his bow any more and unsheathed his long knife.

He was surrounded and they could have killed him many times over had they wished it, but they were having a bit of trouble taking him alive. He cut down so many that the grass was slick with blood and the corpses became hindering obstacles for both sides, but he could not escape the ring closing ever tighter about him. He wavered between turning the blade on himself and hoping reinforcements were on the horizon. Elladan could not be far away. The poison began to muddle his mind and his efforts to defend himself grew uncoordinated and futile. He tried to send another call and could not secure sufficient air to do it. Gasping for breath, he had numerous small wounds that bled freely and decided they must be using poison on everything to bring him down. He staggered as a spear jabbed his abdomen and left a hole there. He was on his knees. They took hold of him at great cost in lifeblood, but there were too many to kill with only one knife. It was taken from him and then the beasts pounced in fury to avenge their fallen comrades. He was bound hand and foot and carried off in haste.

  
Like a broad and placid lake of glass or an infinitely dark and silent sky, the long expanse rolled out its immensity, endless and vast and empty, unbroken by tracks or trails as though untouched and untrodden since the beginning of time. In two halves it extended, green below and blue above, both colours shading into a multitude of tints and hues within the range of their typical definition, splotched here and there with brown and grey below, white and grey above, and everywhere the eye rested radiated a vivid vitality of living thought and intention. Oh, for it was not empty truly, merely seeming so in its magnitude of space and its dearth of any but green life, but that fallacy was a misconception entertained by and derived from the perspective of those lesser creatures, parasites and epiphytes with which the earth was afflicted.

It had never impressed him so deeply before that the whole of Arda was like a living thing, was indeed a living thing. Always he had been concerned with those parasites and epiphytes, failing to see the greater entity supporting them all, failing to acknowledge it as alive in its own right. He wasn't sure what had prompted this new perception, but neither did he question its validity. Something had awakened in him a higher, or perhaps a deeper, awareness. Perhaps it was exposure to this open land, this unending expanse of treeless ground that stretched his thoughts in order to take it in. Perhaps it was the sudden and overpowering relevance of the sky above and Anor's relentless dominion, hidden for most of his life behind the interlocking limbs of the canopy at home. Whatever the reason, his mind and heart were open now and like words spoken or deeds done, he could neither revoke nor undo his epiphany.

_Why should I wish it? I like this dream._

What a disadvantage not to comprehend the language of this being. Surely, could it be heard and understood, much knowledge and enlightenment would arise between the minds, one seeking, one disgorging its limitless profundity. Even so, the sages among his people said the earth was finite with a set time of being and expiring and renewal, even as elven kind. Still, such an existence must converge upon perpetuity so great it was by comparison to his fleeting awareness. So the lesser mortals viewed the First-born: eternal and unchanging.

_And so we are akin to one another in this sense, the world and all of elf-kind._

Arda was singular, alone, and surely that fact must prompt an outpouring of communication between master and pupil, the earth and himself. Yet, in its solitude and singularity could any external stimulus be required to grant such an entity validation? It existed; it was. Self contained and independent, nothing could be appended to or detracted from its substance such that it would become more or other, nor divided and diminished. Of all the Music flowing round and through this world, its own remained unheard, being too grand, too complex, and those select few among its parasites and epiphytes that could grasp a minuscule portion of such a symphony seldom realised what they discerned.

No, these countless mites and motes of life arrayed in staggered steps between the simplest and basest to those most highly organised and of intricate design could not comprehend a voice so vast and influential. Even the First-born failed in this, dividing the world into things that lived and things that merely existed when such a division had no basis beyond their limitations in comprehension. A bone in his body was not in and of itself aware, yet it was alive and part of him and thus contributed to the entirety of everything that he was, a sentient entity capable of rational thought and great depth of feeling. The world possessed also a body; why should it not have a mind and a spirit as well?

Perhaps only those who first sang it into being might yet recall that primitive and formative language and attune their spirits and listen. Even so, how far away they must needs stand to gather all the vibrations of the multitudinous themes emanating from within its isolation. And were that possible, what manner of speech would pass between the enormous child and its elusive creators? It did not seem any could be traded, for those who wrought it had then abandoned it cruelly and the world had suffered. The earth must sing in moaning tones of sorrow and rage words too terrible to bear hearing.

Such internal discourse served to disassociate him from the physical experience of being upon and part of the world, plunging him into a strange state in which his body vanished, senses ineffective, blind and deaf and numb in every nerve so that only his thoughts remained. The phenomenon was not frightening, which he vaguely felt should be, and his intellect reflected and weighed all these impressions with detached interest, summing them to conclude that he was not separate and the earth was not separate; they were intimately entwined. He was, he decided, a form of expression with which this entity communicated itself, a flight of notes within a song or a phrase strung through a stirring oratory, though to whom the world was speaking and singing he could not divine, unless it was Eru.

_Whoever that may be. And if I am only some tiny bit of a thought, with all these ideas and instincts that in my own mind define myself to myself, what complexity must this being possess?_

He blinked, uncertain what had pulled him from such recondite reverie, and found his eyes could see, his ears hear. His nostrils flared as he drew breath deeply, inflating his lungs to scent the rude, brisk push of a southerly wind, contrarily damp and cold. "Storm coming up," he murmured softly.

"Aye, an ugly one from the looks of those stampeding clouds yonder."

Legolas turned sharply, not expecting any reply, and discovered his companion poised a pace or two behind him. "Elrohir."

"Luthadron," (Enchanter) Elrohir dipped his head, smiling. "I did not like to disturb such concentrated introspection, though it is unexpected and not altogether safe, might I add."

"Do not call me that," Legolas frowned, disregarding all but the unwelcome designation. "What do you want?"

"I saw you leave camp some time ago."

"So you followed me. Can I not have a moment's peace?"

"Surely, yet it is unwise to stray so far from the main camp alone."

"I do not need a minder! In case you had not noticed by now, I am a capable warrior."

"Peace! I am sorry, but you must admit. . ."

"Admit what?"

"Legolas, I have not often beheld such profound . . ." he struggled for an inoffensive term, ". . .mental absorption and certainly not among sylvan folk, who are the most watchful of all elves, they say." Legolas did not respond beyond peering at him warily, and Elrohir began to wonder if the Wood Elf was still dreaming. _He is often dreaming, even when he seems most wakeful._ "I have only observed this kind of suspension from reality among the ancients I have had the privilege to know and then only within the sanctuary of Imladris or Lothlorien. To them I dared not ask, but with you I think I might chance the query: what were you thinking about so deeply?"

"Who defines reality and in what manner can a living being be removed from it, even minimally?" Legolas retorted, unaccountably angry that Elrohir was being so careful not to accuse him of being careless.

Elrohir gave a short and exasperated laugh. "Eru defines it, surely."

"Then you reckon all that is and all that was and all that is yet to be are contained within the unseen and unknown power to which we give that inadequate name?"

"Yes," Elrohir shifted and scratched his neck awkwardly; this was starting to sound like those densely disputed discussions between his grandmother and his Adar. "Luthadron, I confess I do not truly comprehend any of this. Reality is what I experience; no more can I say than that."

"Do not call me that!" Legolas snapped and returned his gaze to the rippling hills spreading out like waves of green water frozen in a motionless river. Bright white stones capped every one, not unlike the froth on the torrents raging through the gorge near the Central Mountains of home, and he felt drawn to examine them more closely.

"Forgive me; I only meant it as a jest in good fellowship."

"Strange joke, naming me thus. I am a warrior, nothing more than this."

"Oh, nay. Much more, Legolas," Elrohir cocked his head to the right and peered at him, perceiving that in some peculiar manner the Wood Elf clung to that notion, a sort of desperation in his insistence that he was no different than any other ellon in all the wide world. "Why do you do that?" And at the very same time, he projected the undeniable persona of someone very much set apart from others. _Apart and above._

"I am not doing anything," Legolas grumbled, sighing, unable to comprehend what exactly he was being accused of now. "I do not want company; can you not leave?"

"Well, at least you are direct," Elrohir issued a bark of laughter. "Never have I been so oft regarded and with so little respect." His law-brother gave an annoyed shake of the head but did not look back. "Ah, but that isn't true either, is it? Come, we are alone here. Can we not speak of this frankly and resolve it for once?"

"You are so very like your brother in all ways," complained Legolas, expelling another huge sigh into the wind. "You refer to me in unkind and but poorly veiled derision, marking me a haughty and arrogant enchanter, hinting that I am negligent and inattentive to danger, yet cannot construe my reluctance to converse with you."

"I see," Elrohir smiled ruefully and his brows rose in fair imitation of his father's expression when caught out in a less than pleasant example of his own haughty arrogance. He wanted badly to salvage the situation and yet when he spoke the words did not come forth in the apologetic manner intended. With saucy tongue he glibly teased, "I would respect your privacy, but find I cannot. I do not want to leave you."

"Permit me remove the burden from your heart," Legolas' courtesy dripped with scorn as he turned to face his law-brother, bowing insolently. "I bid you farewell, Elrohir."

He moved off, striding rapidly over the plains toward the largest of the mounds in the vicinity. He refused to look behind to know whether he was followed, but his ears told him Elrohir was not there. The pall of gloomy rancour released him then and he had need to inhale the storm-charged air, finding he was so tense that his hands had rolled up into tight fists in the effort to contain it. Shadows passed over him as the clouds raced across the sky and just as he reached the summit of the barrow the first fat drops landed on his chest, the wind strongly from the south-east. The deluge appeared reluctant to hasten, preceded by a popping flash amid the slate-grey banks that covered the heavens to the southern horizon of the Downs. A distant rumble echoed later. _It will not be too long to arrive, yet neither will it remain above a day._ He resigned himself to getting throughly wet nonetheless, for there was no cover on the hilltop.

He turned his attention to the tall stones standing guard atop the mound, a broad ring of mighty, immobile sentinels ever at watch over the desiccated kings beneath their feet. Time had made them tilt a little here or there, yet they all remained steadfast, upright, untoppled and undisturbed by the change of the seasons and the regular march of years and centuries. They were of white rock, glistening and shimmering even under the overcast light of the occluded sky, and gave off a faint, eery glow as though they had been storing up Anor's rays to dispense them as needed when darkness engulfed the plains. He set his palm upon the rough face of the nearest and recorded the jagged surface, for though hewn by man the giant slabs had not been smoothed or worked with any ornamentation, nor any mark or inscription of any kind appeared in all the plain expanse of brittle rock. Like teeth, he thought them, and the idea gave him an uneasy feeling in his belly so that he left the interior of the circle they defined, perceiving it in his imagination as a huge and gaping mouth. He shivered, rejecting that notion. The ghosts of dead men were nothing to fear.

 _Though tales tell of other spirits hiding here._ He thought of the Wraith and the ring in his pocket, shut the notion out.

All around the perimeter he walked, touching lightly each one of them, considering again how like they were to soldiers on eternal watch. It perplexed him that dead kings could require either protection or such deferential respect, for the bones beneath the stones had no means to perceive the honour and fealty accorded them. It must then serve some need among the living who would gaze upon these once hallowed places. That men would set such monuments upon the graves of their rulers was curious to him, for he had been taught as a child that human-kind departed Arda forever upon death, never to return. Why announce the remnant of that death so boldly? Was it meant to serve as a beacon, a pointer toward the way that all their kind must follow? Little had he considered the fate of men before, his own being of more immediate concern, and he found himself confounded now.

A brilliant spear of lightning pierced the atmosphere and an instant behind it came a barrage of thunder that shook even the ground beneath his boots. Startled, he glanced up to see the sky turned nearly black, clouds fairly boiling upon one another as they tumbled lower, and had to clear the hair from his eyes as the gale whipped it round his face. The heavens burst in that moment and threw down such heavy rain that it battered him with hail stones the size of ravens' eggs. Pressed against the bulk of the nearest stone, he was soaked in seconds and miserable within minutes, hair plastered against his back and neck, garments saturated, his cloak wet and dripping, a monstrous shroud that pulled him into a low crouch in the bent and beaten grass. He let loose the clasps that held it and barely heard it fall to earth in the drumming din of the deluge. Kicking it awkwardly away, he raised his arm over his lowered head and watched the white nobs of ice bouncing in the turf. There was nothing else to do but wait out the storm where he was.

"Elbereth!"

This exclamation was nearly drowned out save it was uttered so near his ears, and Legolas looked up to find Elrohir there, cloak held up above him for shelter. He closed the gap between them, placing one leg on either side of the archer, standing straddled above him so that they might share the meagre cover the cape granted. It was not insignificant after all, for it was made of the cloth woven in Lorien by his grandmother's own hands, no less. The fabric resisted the elements so well that at once the driving force of the rain was diminished by at least half and the noise of the strident precipitation mellowed to a dull thrumming. Lightning cast the younger twin in sharp outline as Legolas stared up into the comely features and though he knew he should offer thanks, he could not make himself speak the words.

"Your arms will grow weary, Elrohir," was the best he could manage and to hide the disquiet their proximity created he scowled fiercely. This only invited a smile, somewhat pleased and triumphant, in return.

"How long have you been able to distinguish me from my brother?"

"Always." It was almost the truth. "I only made the error once due to the intensity of the dream which had me in its grip that day. I was not well."

"Yet you say nothing to him."

"It should not matter if I can or cannot."

"It matters very much to him."

"And you?"

"Aye, to me, too."

There was a long pause and Legolas resumed his study of the inundated earth beneath his boots. Elrohir used the time to gather his courage and his tact, for he wished to take full advantage of the archer's unforeseen immobilisation without arousing that famous temper and the inevitable retreat.

"Why have you never told him, Legolas? Surely it would ease his fears and allow him to quiet his jealousy."

"I was not well; he should have understood that and taken care to protect me from those from whom I perceived a threat. Instead, he chooses to defame me, accusing me of infidelity in thought if not action."

"That is unjust," Elrohir commented evenly, careful not to be caught staring when Legolas raised his head to see if he was. "You have done nothing to earn his distrust."

There he let the topic drop, sensing increasing tension arising from the crouching figure. Indeed, it was impossible to be so close, verily enveloped in the cloud of scent and light the Wood Elf emitted, and not perceive that Legolas' reaction comprised an uneasy mixture of desire and dread. No more could he fail to respond in kind and willed himself to keep absolutely still, hardly daring to draw breath. Time passed; the woodland prince stayed put; Elrohir silently thanked innumerable Valar and swallowed ere he spoke again.

"I do not think that way, for I fully understanding the difference between love and desire. The former can never be suborned by the latter, and I know you do love him. He is highly favoured to receive such a gift and I can do naught but envy him."

Legolas peered at him, owl-eyed and distraught. What was he supposed to reply to such a statement? "Thank you," he muttered and realised he meant it, for Elrohir would not put him to the test. He looked away again.

He should arise and go, now, and return to camp, find Elladan even if it was only to berate him for his demeaning attitude. Indeed, he would do so now. He was shocked to realise he could not move. Legolas felt his heart stumble and then surge as Elrohir shifted above him and brushed a solid thigh against his shoulder. He jerked upright, turning, and found himself between and beneath the ellon's outstretched arms. He had thought this would be a less compromising position, but it harboured its own set of temptations. Their eyes met and could find no other target on which to focus.

How long they stood thus in mute and mesmerised fascination neither cared to calculate, each one afraid to move, neither one wanting to budge. That both were desperately trying to find any excuse to remain just as they were was at once implicitly obvious and explicitly occult. Finally Elrohir flexed his shoulders to achieve some slight relief for the ache that had begun in the rigid muscles and the motion gave Legolas the insight required.

"Here," he called above the rain and reaching behind for his bow held its unstrung length above his head between his outstretched hands, effectively taking half the weight of the waterlogged cloak. He found himself so close to Elrohir that he could discern soft flecks of amber in the pale grey irises and detect the fine, thin line of a very old scar peeking above the collar of his tunic. Both features were unique, but Legolas did not need to see them to appreciate the more essential qualities that were Elrohir's alone. His gaze travelled again to compelling eyes and then to a firmly set but sensitive mouth, fell further to examine chin and neck, paused where the carotid artery thumped steadily. He swallowed in sympathy as the twin's prominent larynx bobbed. Somehow, that involuntary admission of barely controlled panic eased his own and he smiled, meeting the flustered stare with none of his sternly bristling aura on display. "This is better, yes?"

"Yes," Elrohir was not sure any sound came out of him in the forming of this answer for his heart was pounding too loudly, adding its thudding percussion to the driving cacophony of the storm. Legolas was so near he could perceive individual eyelashes clumped together with captive raindrops and watched a succession of rivulets ripple through his water-matted mane, rolling down his cheeks and dripping from his chin. A shock of light from another bolt raised the hair on his arms and cast the shadow of the long bow across Legolas' face, accentuating the rich colour of his eyes, the lush crimson of smiling lips. He wanted to kiss them, but didn't dare. "I would never dishonour you," he heard himself say, vehement fervour in the quiet tones of the syllables. The admission terrified him and he searched the indigo gaze to learn how this avowal would be taken, finding not the aggravation or anger he expected but a surprised, contemplative expression.

"Because I am his?"

"Because you are Legolas." It was an inelegant reply and Elrohir blushed, for he wanted to explain that he found Legolas worthy, admirable, courageous, beautiful, intelligent, and desirable. His heart ached to see the flash of pain that inundated the clear eyes watching him and hoped it was not due to his fumbling tongue. "Nay, nay, I mean more than that . . ."

"Ha na far," (It is enough) Legolas stopped him quickly, knowing he had revealed his hurting heart and wishing it were not so. "Be at peace, it is not because of what you said." He sighed and looked out upon the rain-blurred landscape, finding the storm fitting to his woeful mood. "It is because he does not speak this way anymore. I do not understand." The rest he could not voice, feeling his throat tighten uncomfortably as emotion threatened to overwhelm him. He kept his eyes downcast, grateful for the silence, and inched nearer, needing comfort and trusting to receive it. There was barely a hand's breadth between them now and with a stifled sob he laid his head against Elrohir's chest, ear above his heart, and gave way to his grief as one gentle hand settled softly at his back to hold him there.

The tempest raged about them, thrashing the barrow with vengeful handfuls of icy pebbles and relentless, jabbing needles while the howling, incessant wind sought to force the fluid flux beneath the slender shelter of the dripping cloak. The grass was swimming in so much water that the successive droplets splashed and bounced as the spray of a fountain dancing on the rippling surface of its basin-bound lake. Sodden and heavy, the corner of the cape that Elrohir had let loose slapped dully against him at the mercy of the gale and drew all the rain gathered on their drooping roof down that side. He was soaked, but did not care, the sensation insignificant, his whole body warmed by the slight pressure of Legolas' body leaning against his. The torrent roared, cracking the heavens with forked blazons in stark yellow and white, making the earth tremble under the force of stentorian compressions of the air above them, yet the two endured all stoically, clinging without any possessive imperative to a rare and fragile communion.

At length the swift southerly wind shoved and shouldered the advancing boundary of tropical air further west and north, herding its monstrous clouds and whistling turbulence across the broad valley, its leading edge still furiously violent, leaving the hilltop in grudging haste, its legacy a slower patter of rain much reduced in its effects. The sky itself retreated, the overhanging ceiling of thunderheads lifting into a harmless expanse of pale and dappled obscurity. Far away, the lyrical call of a lark tripped through the drenched air, repeating in patient intervals until the answering notes resounded. In silent accord, Legolas straightened and lowered his bow as Elrohir took a step back and snapped the sopping cape sharply. It exploded with a sudden burst of captive droplets that flew aloft only to descend and pelt them both and both laughed.

"Ah well, a little more can do no further harm," Elrohir shrugged an apology and smiled.

"Truly," Legolas averred, finding he did not feel anything but easy and tranquil, all his grim speculations and bitter anguish flushed from his soul. "We should return to the camp." No answer was given but Elrohir fell into step beside him as he clambered down the slippery slope. They proceeded together across the fields without need for talk and by the time the tents were in sight had discovered they were allies, two hearts that adored Elladan, two hearts that Elladan treated with callous disregard.

They paused a moment and surveyed the empty camp, the open space deserted due to the weather in favour of the shelter afforded by sullen, dun coloured huts. Legolas took a step but Elrohir stopped him with a touch and he turned to find a set of serious and somber eyes regarding him.

"What is it?"

"If it had been me instead of him, you would have been bound to me?"

"Yes."

"And would you have loved me?"

"I would. Dearly," Legolas gave his answers honestly and without hesitation, "but still I would have suffered, for you love Elladan and are bound to him, as you were even then." He regretted the sadness that remained in Elrohir's noble countenance once he had spoken, but was also comforted for some of that sorrow was for him. He turned to see Elladan come forth from their tent.

He greeted them with deceptive calm, but no sooner had he and Legolas retired within than the interrogation and its subsequent accusations started.

"I cannot imagine what that would be like, caught between the two," Arathorn listened as the latest argument between Elladan and his mate quickly escalated into angry voices and ugly insults. He moved to the entrance of his pavilion and raised the flap to watch, his kinsman following to satisfy his own curiosity.

"Aye, it is a bizarre situation and thankfully strictly an elvish matter in which we need not become entangled," counselled Halbarad. As he spoke, Legolas exited the canvas hut and stormed off in one direction, Elladan in another. "Perhaps they will forgive each other after sulking for a day or two and we will have a spell of peace, however brief."

"Perhaps," Arathorn said doubtfully, observing Elladan following after Legolas at a rapid pace, calling for him. Except that it was not Elladan. "Ai, Valar. That bodes ill." They shared grim displeasure, but with the combatants parted the show was at least temporarily over. The men resumed their seats and their game of cards. 

"He truly cannot distinguish between them?"

"So Elladan says, but the bonding band provides the assurance he needs."

Halbarad snorted. "It is the easiest thing to procure a golden ring and wear it; easier still to take it off afterward and hide it."

Their eyes conversed in silent speculation and Arathorn cursed. He scrambled to his feet. "The twins will either kill each other or one of them will kill Legolas, unless he murders them both first."

"I think you should stay out of it," Halbarad cautioned. He sighed in irritation as this remark was ignored and also rose, thinking he might warn Arador of the impending disaster.

  
Rain fell, steady, gentle, cool and refreshing, and though the sky was masked and the sun eclipsed behind thick and glabrous vapours the milky veil was luminous, emitting the pearly lustre of opals, and the land lay revealed in splendour under this diffuse and diffracted light. It was a pleasant country in which to wander, bounded in tall trees soaring toward the occluded heavens, spaced in stately ranks that formed a broad avenue between which stretched a smooth green lawn, the colour of the blades striking against the rich and ruddy bark of the gnarled toes of the ancient cedars, enhanced by the duller tones of the pale vault above and the dim shimmer of the silvery drops falling, falling eternally, it seemed, for the weather and the place must be conjoined. Here then was Ross'lad (Rainwood) wherein constant precipitation bathed the land and fed the world at just the perfect rate, in exactly the correct volume to promise prosperity.

It fell upon trees and grass and every living thing beneath it and everywhere the placid patter underscored the sweet sonnets of birds and the whispering sighs of amiable zephyrs ventilating the picturesque scene with the fragrant scents of good, wet earth. It fell upon two people strolling hand in hand along this natural byway, one tall and bold and raven-haired, the other lithe and lean and crowned in gold, though the thorough drenching both endured had rendered this to a darker tint. Their clothes were soaked and adhered to them closely, dripping cloaks in gold-spun gauze trailing behind, silken shirts made transparent by the water's touch plastered against their bodies, dark leather leggings uncomfortably bulky pulling at their thighs, and so they shed them. On they passed along the endless lane and one by one each garment fell away, discarded on the path until all they walked naked side by side adorned in only bands of gold, content under the caress of the falling rain.

In timeless companionship they proceeded together through the grand avenue, advancing without progressing, or progressing without advancing, for there was no destination and no point of origin either could name, and gradually this relentless trek impressed itself upon them so that they seemed at last to awaken and perceive the place in wonder where before they had simply experienced it in its totality, which in some manner included and encompassed them.

"I do not know this place."

"I do. This is Aramen (Royal Road) though some say Aran Lîr (King Row). This is Greenwood, my home."

"It is beautiful."

"It is."

For no accountable reason they stopped and turned to face each other, now both hands joined as they gazed upon one another serenely studying with unquestioning acceptance their presence together under the outspread eaves of the venerable beeches. The silent moment lengthened and again they lost every conscious reckoning of its extent, leaning forward effortlessly to indulge a lingering embrace of lips and tongues. When it was done they discovered no space between them, pressed heart to heart in a comforting embrace, hands and arms entwined in deluged tresses and wrapped round waists and shoulders. The desire between them resisted urgency, suffusing them instead with appreciation of the inevitability of the result toward which such yearning tended. They kissed again and again parted, smiling.

"This is a dream."

"Yes, of a kind."

"Is it your dream, then, and am I only a visitor here?"

"It is my dream, but you are dreaming it."

"How so? I do not know this place."

"Does it matter?"

"No," he laughed, bending to drink the rain from his companion's neck and mark the drenched skin.

His efforts raised a moan of longing and he responded with further explorations, allowing no area of the physical form before him to go uninspected, untouched, or unkissed. It became necessary to kneel upon the waterlogged expanse of green grass and then to coax and convince his companion to submit. He did so gradually and reverently, admitting no right nor demanding primacy, mutely and humbly pleading permission that the privilege be distinctly and personally bestowed on him for him alone. The supplication was granted. They joined in the age old manner ordained for all living things and the union was of more than flesh and blood, though their enjoyment was not devoid of the exchange of those essential fluids and accompanied sufficient ecstasy to encourage a repeat of the experience several times. When exhaustion demanded rest, the lovers collapsed still conjoined and slept, then roused to find themselves aroused anew, already engaged in the sublime friction, fucking beneath a cloudless sky of powder blue at dawn.

Legolas clung to him, legs cinched round Elrohir's narrow waist, arms cradling the ebony head to keep it just there, watching the voracious mouth suckling his nipples, rocking in concert with the engorged cock piercing him. Orgasm seized him in its violent passion and Elrohir spilled almost immediately after, groaning as he strained to extend the sensation as long as possible, knowing it was a fruitless struggle but not displeased in the least for all that. Their motion slowed and then stalled, left them exhilarated and weary. Elrohir dismounted and cast himself on his back beside the Wood Elf, chest heaving and heart thundering; he was happy.

"Glorious," he purred, smiling into the gathering light above them; the rain had stopped. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed the air, clean and pure and washed by the rain. No response followed his exultant exclamation and so he turned to see if all was well with Legolas, finding he was curled on his side in the grass, lost in reverie, cerulean irises dazed and dreamy. His grin expanded and he rolled nearer to kiss parted lips and the blushing tip of an ear, then sat up. He ran astonished fingers through the golden hair and over the spent and motionless body. "Glorious." He raised one limp hand to his lips so to kiss each long finger, and discovered the ring Legolas wore was not his golden bonding band.

The alarm this generated jolted him into an entirely different reality and Elrohir found himself in a fair glade dappled with sunlight and and filled with the gentle cadence of chanting voices murmuring potent verses in an ancient tongue, Elladan beside him gripping his hand so tightly it was painful.

"Muindoren," he whispered, but his brother paid no heed, vision trained upon a cluster of sylvan folk bending over the object of all this intensely concentrated energy, for there could be no denying the power flooding the place was an elemental force, swirling erratically through a group comprised of several healers and two warriors stained and bloodied from battle. He shifted, trying to glimpse the wounded loved one they hoped to heal, but too many bodies blocked his view. He squeezed Elladan's fingers and gently shook his arm. "Elladan!" It was not his twin who replied. One of the battle-torn warriors heard him and turned suddenly to fix him with a piercing glare of horror and despair, and Elrohir recognised the Elven King.

"No!" Thranduil shouted, rising and advancing on Elrohir with such vehemence that he cringed and threw up his arm to fend him off. "Not this way! Not you!" He seized Elrohir and yanked him up, pulling Elladan with them, as stiffly unyielding as a corpse, pulled desperately to part the gripping hands, shouting incoherent warnings as he did all this.

Elrohir tried to speak and could not, observed in confusion that the scene had frozen, all the rest of the people motionless and silent as the chanting went on in a single sonorous voice, majestic and dire and commanding, the words terrible so that he felt sickened. Thranduil continued tugging to pry the hands apart, and when they would not separate drew his sword, raising it up with a horrific shout as he cleaved Elladan's hand from his wrist. Crimson blood gushed all over Elrohir and he stared in disbelief at the severed fingers still clutching tight to his, disoriented to hear that the person screaming was him and not Elladan. He wanted to drop it, to throw it from him, revolted and frightened, but the fingers held on with tenacious pressure. Thranduil loomed over him, shouted something that was drowned out in the thunderous tones of the incantation and raised the sword again.

Instinctively Elrohir dodged and rolled, coming up on his feet as he unsheathed his broadsword to defend himself only to find the king using his blade to point at the thing still clenched in his fist, eyes wide in frantic anxiety to communicate the meaning of all this madness. Over and over he repeated some words, bending near, following as Elrohir backed away, willing him to understand, and at last Elrohir focused on his lips and comprehended the syllables they formed: the ring! the ring! the ring! the ring! His eyes dropped to the severed hand even as he raised it up and saw a shining circle of crystal and mithril and music and light glinting on the third finger. From there his gaze returned to Thranduil's face and watched new thoughts push through the contorted mouth: Give it to me! Give me the ring!

The king leaped forward, fearing he would not obey or perceiving he could not act, pouncing to snatch it from him, but Elrohir discovered he was loath to part with his brother's hand. Instinctively his broadsword came up to meet the monarch's charge and Thranduil ran upon it, falling as it cleaved him through. Elrohir yanked it free and turned to flee though his foe was defeated, bloody hand and bloody blade pouring a torrent of crimson all around him until he foundered in a river of the vital stuff, dragged down beneath drowning waves into blackness and oblivion. He awakened with a loud shout in his own bed in Imladris, Erestor struggling to control his writhing body and quiet his raving.

"Ai, Beloved!" the seneschal cried, relief filling his pale and serious face as he saw consciousness and reason return. "Valar! How you terrified me. Did you dream of the battle in the High Pass?"

Elrohir stared at him, speechless to discover that he and his kinsman were lovers, but before he could sort any of it out a rapid tapping sounded against the bedroom door and a fair voice called to him in tones of both apology and distress. Disbelieving his hearing, Elrohir rose naked from the bed and went to the door, opening it to see his mother standing in his study garbed in her favourite dressing gown, her pale green eyes filled with worry that only partly dissipated as she beheld him. It could not be true; it was a cruel dream and one he had had numerous times before, but he could not stop himself from calling to her.

"Nana?" The vision reached out a hand to him, smiling a gentle smile of love and sorrow, but he recoiled. On her third finger she wore a fair adornment wrought in crystal and mithril and music and light. In that instant he remembered everything, the horrible fight in the mountain passes, the desperate efforts to preserve their mother, Elladan at the rear keeping the fiends at bay, sword flashing and dagger darting, face grim but determined, his death as he was overwhelmed and a goblin struck him down, Elrohir burdened with their naneth, unable to go to him. A throng of foul goblins poured out of the tunnel but he was already mounted and bore Celebrian away. "Elbereth forgive us! We left him there. We left Elladan in that place among those beasts!"

### Mithlond ~ 2510

There was nothing more to say. There had been a month of days during the journey here in which to say everything; nay, an entire coronar had come and gone and none of his words had effected a cure for her anguish. Bodily hurts he had healed, fearful memories of the trauma she had surmounted, but Celebrian could not recover from guilt over the death of Elladan. At last they had decided that she must sail or whither, for she longed to join her son in Mandos, since she could not tell when the Valar might see fit to permit his rebirth. She could not endure the waiting. Yet, even with nothing to say, though everything had been said over and over, the words spilled out again anyway.

"You could join me," she told him. "Join me! If you agreed, your change of heart would inspire the same in Elrohir and that in turn would make Arwen eager to accompany me also. You are the reason we must now be parted, Elrond, and it is a truth you cannot deny."

He didn't bother to try and discovered he had no more tears left with which to nourish his sorrow, an abyss that swallowed all remedies, all comforts, all actions, and all hope. "You ask me to abandon the duty to which I swore. Is this honourable? I can do nothing for Elladan and you will not hear me."

"What you hold could be passed to another, to my father, to Lord Galdor or Círdan. What you have sworn could be sworn again, even as you took on the burden from another."

"My reasons for not doing so have all been stated," he sighed, tired, and his hand lifted in a worn, exasperated gesture to no purpose. "You do not accept them; yet, I cannot go back on my sworn word. This is my fate, Celebrian; I cannot turn from it."

Behind him Celeborn made an abortive motion as though to speak, but instead sealed his lips in an aggrieved frown and sighed. He would do it, had offered to do it, but Elrond refused this, saying that two Rings in one realm would surely be noticed and draw the Enemy forth. He did not agree with that and knew Elrond lied to himself, to everyone. He did not want the protection the ring bought her citizens withdrawn from Imladris. Then there was the reluctance to bow to defeat this blow to his family dealt him; Elrond balked to be beaten and he desired vengeance before he fled the scene of battle. Celeborn understood this; had he not felt the same in Doriath even as the world was being riven by wars, by hatred and malice and greed and pride? It was not something his wife would appreciate were he to indulge the same pride clothed in such virtuous garb. _No more can Celebrian abide it, for she is also proud._ Comprehending these troubled regrets, his Lady squeezed his hand; he squeezed back.

Galadriel contained her anger admirably and remained silent. She was the most vocal proponent of this venture and felt Elrond should do as her daughter desired. It was also true that she was the one encouraging Celebrian to beseech him to give up Vilya to make it possible. The Ring of Air would be held by Celeborn in his absence and she found that substitution not only adequate but an improvement over the present circumstances. Gil-Galad had erred in choosing Elrond, if he even had, for often she wondered whether the standard bearer simply helped himself to the ring at the king's passing to Mandos. It was what she would have done. Thus, she could excuse Elrond's lust for Vilya, but not to placing it above love for her daughter. The couple were still bickering even here at the quay; she tightened her grip on Celeborn's hand again.

"There is a point beyond which such an oath can be held binding," Celebrian pleaded. "This loss we have suffered is that barrier."

"Others have suffered as much or worse," Elrond huffed, irritated to be cast as the faithless party in this affair. She always spoke of it as 'this loss' as though it were some inanimate thing misplaced and wanting. It was their son, Elladan. _Our child!_ He had sacrificed a son for her; was this not sufficient to prove his love? "Thranduil in Greenwood lost nearly his entire family. He has not deserted his people though his grief is extreme. Am I to do less?"

"Valar! These are the last words you will trade for many a long year. Can you not be civil to one another just once?" It was Elrohir's ragged voice that rent the air with this explosive rebuke. He would say more but suddenly Celeborn settled two calming hands upon his shoulders and drew him back, kept one hand firmly there, strong and comforting. He inhaled and lowered his eyes from his mother's stricken face. "Forgive me."

"Nay, ionen. Forgive my bitterness," Celebrian begged and turned to her husband. "I will forgive your short-sightedness and you will forgive my needy weakness, that we may encounter one another in happier times and know peace." She held out her hand to Elrond. He took it immediately and pressed it to his lips, shamed by his behaviour, and could not look at Elrohir. Then she spoke private words of counsel with her daughter and handed her off to Elrond, who held her shaking figure secure against his chest, watching as Celebrian turned to Elrohir. "I have something I would give to you," she said and he fixed her with a frigid eye.

"Not that, I will not take it." Elrohir stepped back to prevent her from handing him the crystal ring with its living music and unearthly light.

"This may make your heart easier, since it was his. Take it, Elrohir, that I may know you will not join him in Mandos." Celebrian held forth the ring.

"It cannot help me," he insisted angrily, "and I believe it is harmful rather than helpful. Take it with you and hand it over to Aulë the Smith; see what he makes of it."

"You speak as though it were something evil," she scolded sadly. "This was crafted by Celebrimbor himself and given to my mother, who gave it then to her First-born and I to mine, for Elladan raised the cry of life before you did. It is a ring of healing, ionen, not of woe or hurt."

"I do not care who made it or why; it may not be an evil thing in its design, but evil has been done with it. No sooner did my brother give it back to you to induce your healing than he was cut down before my very eyes. I will not touch it." He crossed his arms before him and turned his back, refusing even to see it in her hand. Then Arwen stepped out of their father's embrace and came closer.

"Give it to me, Nana, and I will hold it for him, that he may have this remembrance to sustain him during our separation," she suggested and to this Celebrian was willing. Elrohir was not.

"No!" he shouted, angry and horrified, and leaped ahead of her, snatching the crystal ring and enclosing it tight in his fist. "You must not, Arwen!" he warned. She smiled at him and shared a triumphant look with their mother, and then he understood. A shudder worked through him, for while he knew he should cast the thing into the waters of the bay, Elrohir found that he could not do it.

Galadriel was troubled and approached him. "I know this ring has never left our possession. Your mother has done no wrong wearing it but has used it to heal and renew those weighed down in grief. Likewise, your brother used it to heal; indeed, he used it to heal your wounds once. What do you fear from it?"

"I don't know save to say that I have dreamt of that ring and the scenes were not pleasant to behold."

"When did you suffer this vision?"

"What does it matter now? I have taken it and I will keep it. Maybe that way it will not do the things it has already done." Elrohir refused to say more and she withdrew.

Elrond observed all this in mute and passive impotence, incapable of resurrecting any good thing from all this hideous history. There was no more to do; everything that he might have done was far in the past and he could not manage to retreat to that point and change one simple thing, not even one simple word. Had he but said 'nay' instead of 'yea' none of it would have happened. Why had he consented to that ill-fated journey? Surely there were reasons aplenty to reject the plan and he remembered enumerating them more than once. She was stubborn, true, but that had always been the case. Had he refused to supply an escort she would not have chanced to go without one, for she was no fool and had foresight to a degree, limited only when compared to that of her mother. She would have contented herself to wait until the danger was dealt with and the way could be vouchsafed. Had he said no instead of yes, Elladan would not be in Mandos, Elrohir would not be struggling against fading sickness, and Celebrian would not be sailing to Aman today.

Celeborn moved forward to walk her aboard and he stood aside to permit it, bowing solemnly to her, gathering Arwen close. She wept quietly now, but Elrohir looked to be formed of carven stone and did not seem to feel Galadriel's arms about him. Elrond felt ill and swallowed as sweat sprouted on his forehead and under his arms, cold and clammy. She was the last to board and remained on deck as the sails were raised and the anchor weighed. The fair ship glided under the soft sigh of the wind and several of the other immigrants came and stood near her to watch until the land disappeared. Celebrian began to sing a hymn to Yavanna and the others joined in and thus she departed the circles of the world. The distraught families remained on the quay until the ship had sailed beyond the sight of even Círdan.

Elrohir's resolve to sequester the crystal ring and stifle its influence proved fruitless. The years passed. He struggled with his sorrow and rage, spending both in battle against the increasing hordes of orcs and evil men advancing from the east. He spent most of his days with the Rangers and bore witness to their last days. In 2930 Arador was slain in battle; his son Arathorn followed soon after in 2933, leaving an infant son behind. It was Elrohir who escorted mother and child to Imladris, there to shelter as the boy grew to be a man. Elrohir was ever his shadow, hoping to preserve the last of this exalted lineage, but his efforts only succeeded in weakening Aragorn's character and self-confidence. He undertook his obligations as Chieftain with reluctance instead of determination, lacking any ambition to restore the might of Arnor. Elrohir fought his battles for him.

When the Ring of Power rose anew, Aragorn led the expedition to unmake it with Elrohir at his side, for Elladan was not there when Legolas fell and so Thranduil's younger son did not survive that harrowing raid, killed alongside his mother. It was Elrohir whose counsel was followed in this venture and much strife grew among the foster-brothers and the Steward's son after the wizard's death. Thus, despite all the efforts of the Fellowship, Frodo was slain in the battle at Parth Galen and as he lay dying Boromir took the One Ring and fled. Aragorn and Elrohir pursued him; Gimli was slain defending Merry and Pippin, who were taken to Isengard where they were put to death once Saruman found they had not the token he desired. Boromir, Aragorn, and Elrohir were engaged in a bitter confrontation when a host of Uruk Hai overwhelmed them. All three perished in the wooded wilds near the falls of Rauros. The Ring was taken to Mordor, Sauron assumed his full power, and his armies made war upon Gondor, decimating the White City and crushing the forces of her allies. The Steward Denethor and his son Faramir were killed in this onslaught.

In the north, Greenwood and Lothlorien burned, their people killed or scattered despite a bold and courageous march to their aid by Durin's folk from Erebor and the Iron Hills. The price paid for this valiant effort was the near complete decimation of the Children of Aulë. Galadriel held back Sauron's armies until the dwarves arrived, but could not prevail when he appeared to take Nenya from her. Then she regretted that she had kept it, but it was too late. She fled rather than give it up, abandoning Celeborn and the Galadhrim and the dwarves to their fate. They delayed him long enough and Nenya protected her from discovery. At the havens she and Arwen and took ship, for all elves that could were departing Middle-earth. Mithlond emptied and all her boats set sail, but one.

Imladris was the last of the Elven realms to fall, for Elrond rallied what was left of free people and went to battle against their foe. Thranduil and Celeborn joined him with what remained of the sylvan and Sindarin folk of the woods. Mithrandir returned from death and came bearing the Ring of Fire, but even with this weapon it was not enough to vanquish Sauron and his Wraiths. Had they possessed all three rings, perhaps the outcome would have been different. Small was the contingent of warriors who survived that war. Thranduil was not among them, but he did not die on the field, for Elrond carried him out of the carnage. Just as he breathed his last, the king pulled him near and whispered, "Yes instead of No, No instead of Yes. We are both arrogant fools, Elrond, and look at what our words have wrought."

The Three Elven Rings of Power escaped over sea with their Keepers and the world was plunged into darkness.

__

### But Thranduil could never accept such an end as this.

__

  
"Enough of this! We cannot spare her, even as I foretold. The consequences are too terrible; Eru will not permit it. We cannot manifest these temporal events; the path turns always into Shadow."

"There must be another avenue we have not explored. Perhaps if both of them arrived before the disaster, the argument would not happen and she would stay to entertain our guests."

"That is a possibility, yet she is destined to die and she will die. Only the manner of her demise is. . .somewhat fluid."

"No, no! It's the Twins that are the trouble here. There must be another of the right lineage we do not know about."

"What if there is? If so, he or she must be of the Avari dwelling in forgotten lands, for we know nothing of their genealogy and they do not care to reveal it, or even themselves. How would we find this person?"

"Aye. So, it is between the sons of Elrond that we must forge this grim reality."

"We can at least spare her the doom of being consumed by that Thing in the tower. That is all Legolas wants, to free her from that. If she must die, and so I deem it to be, then you must walk the road that will take her to the safety of Mandos."

"That is not an easy road, yet it is only just and I will take it. And my last child?"

"He is destined to live, for he is needed. Like her, his fate has been fully defined."

"Then why do so many of these paths lead to his death?"

"You are not the only one tampering with fate, Thranduil."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All done except a short epilogue, if you want one.
> 
> ******IMPORTANT*******
> 
> OK folks, time for some input from those who have stuck with this tale through all its ups and downs. You get to decide whether Legolas ends up with Elladan, Elrohir, or BOTH! The epilogue is in progress now, but I need to hear if there is a preference among those who are following the tale. I cannot thank you all individually, so I thought maybe this would be a way to show my appreciation :) Comment anonymously or shoot me an email (erobey@gmail.com) if you have a preference :D

## Adrift in the Sea of Possibility

### ~ Imladris 2509 ~

Secretly, the Lord of Imladris loved the wintry months. The biting tingle of a brisk breeze rattling bare and brittle limbs together, the glistening clarity of crystallised water hanging from the eaves of the porch in a regular fringe of icy pendants, the pristine, unblemished expanse of drift-bound fields, or conversely the deep imprints left by wildlife hopping and striding through it, all of it thrilled him and made his heart race, brought his blood to a keen, even hum that raised in him a sensation of vivacity and wonder and serene enjoyment that no show of springtime's gaudy gewgaws could ever do. He stood on the balcony of his rooms and gazed upon his realm in contented appreciation.

Snow was falling in steady, gentle tendrils, wheeling down in that mesmerising manner of small, wet flakes, alighting noiselessly on the thick, unbroken mantle of white splendour adorning the courtyard. The fountain bubbled over a mass of icicles; they rimmed the broad marble basin and hung from the skirts of the sculpted children laughing and cavorting in the frigid water. The deciduous trees had shed every leaf and held armfuls of snow in every limb as though trying to prevent it from reaching the ground, the lower portion of their trunks banked in mounds of it. The evergreens looked resplendent, as though they had awaited this day and rejoiced at last in the change from autumn to winter. The deep emerald and that dark blue tinted hue that was seen no where else on Arda but in these short spiny leaves stood out against the colourless landscape and gave the scene a hint of vitality. The air was crisp and clean and filled with a tranquil and sombre quietude.

"Varda's Veil! It is cold, Elrond. Honestly, if you insist I must remain in Imladris over yule, then you might at least alter the weather to mimic that of Lorien." Celebrian complained, but not with too much rancour, and drew her fur cloak closer, pulling the hood over her head as she joined her mate on the balcony. He didn't turn, but she knew he was smiling.

"The trees and the land need the change, Bereth nín. (my Queen) You would not enjoy so lovely a spring if I did not permit at least a short season of cold to invade the valley." He glanced at her and his smile grew. He opened out his arm and she hastened to snuggle up against his side. There he held her tight and kissed the brow of her head.

"How can you stand to be out here in nothing but that thin tunic? Come inside and sit by the fireside with me, Hervenn." (Husband)

"In a bit." He rubbed her arm and shoulder, ruffling the plush pelt of the cloak, a spectacular creation of white and black spotted panther skins trimmed in soft ebony ermine. Celebrian appreciated luxury as long as it served a useful purpose. He didn't bother to tell her he didn't feel the chilly air; his entire being was filled with warmth and goodwill for no particular reason save that she was here beside him.

"For whom are you so patiently waiting?"

"Why do you think I expect visitors? Anyway, you usually know who's approaching the valley long before I."

"Exactly and I don't sense anything at all!" She huffed, put out, and he laughed. That made her smile; he did so seldom enough to make it a treasured sound. "Come on, tell me!"

Elrond shrugged. "I don't know, but as always you are correct. Someone with whom I must speak is coming here. I just don't know when and I can't tell who."

"Well, it will be today," she announced firmly and smiled complacently at his surprised expression. "I may not be able to see this person, but I feel something near at hand that is not of elf-kind. Probably Mithrandir, that disreputable sorcerer."

"He is neither disreputable nor a sorcerer. You malign him, Beloved." Elrond accepted as fact that she was right; her insight was nearly as keen as her mother's.

"Oh? Then why did the Valar kick him out of Aman? I don't know what he's up to, but he is always meddling somewhere and things become terribly complicated whenever he intervenes." Celebrian shivered, feeling a chill run down her spine that was not of the weather. She nestled closer, suddenly overwhelmed with such an appalling sensation of misery and despair that she inhaled sharply.

Elrond wrapped both arms protectively round her. "What is it?"

"I . . .I don't know," she whispered. "I felt something terrible, horrible happened to me, Elrond." She shook in his arms and burrowed against his chest.

Alarmed, he led her into the sitting room of their suite and sat her near the hearth, pulled back the voluminous hood to peer into her worried eyes. "You frighten me," he murmured, stroking her hair, touching her stubborn chin. He bent and kissed her spontaneously, grabbed her tight against his heart. "Nothing can harm you here, Bereth nín," he promised.

"I know, I know," she answered softly and drew deeply for breath and for the strength of his spirit, satisfying both needs. It calmed her and she sat up from his hold, smiling. "There, I am better. It was just a fleeting shadow; a passing ghost of another time, nothing more."

"You are certain?" He soothed his hand over her head again and kissed her forehead, searched her eyes for signs of the brief vision that had so suddenly touched her. "Can you tell me of it?" To his dismay she frowned and tossed her head, standing and shrugging out of the cloak and pacing to the sofa. She sat and took up the book she'd been reading.

"Nay, there is nothing to tell," her tone held irritation. "It was not a vision. Just because I am Galadriel's daughter does not mean every small disturbance in my mood has an occult meaning."

"No, of course not," Elrond placated her, but he was concerned nonetheless. She was here, safe and sound, but their sons were out in the world at large; Eru alone knew where and doing Eru alone knew what. He worried her premonition referred to them, but hid his fears, kissed the hand sparkling with the strange light of her fair crystal ring, and resumed his work.

The day wore on and he met with Erestor over the stores on hand in the house, spoke to Glorfindel regarding a charitable distribution of food and clothing to the poor humans that would be starving through the winter months, held council with the Weaver's Guild on a possible shortage of wool, and researched an old tale about wandering unhoused spirits. _Mayhap it was only one of those she felt._ Before long it was eventide and she had planned a formal gala with friends and family. The dinner was exquisite and the music fair and worthy of dancing and the Last Homely House rang with song and laughter until late into the early ours of the next day's dawn, yet through it all that little episode nagged at him. When all the guests had gone home, Elrond found himself once more on the balcony gazing to the west, toward the gates of the estate and the ford far beyond them.

The wizard arrived at midmorning and one look at his stricken face was enough to set Celebrian screaming, hands held out to ward him off. She ran to her bedroom and bolted herself in, keening and crying in abject mourning. In vain Elrond sought to enter and Mithrandir had to pull him away, force him back into the study. There he learned the news he had dreaded: Elrohir was slain, Elladan badly wounded. They were being brought home in slow stages by Gildor and his wandering tribe of cast-offs, the Rangers accompanying them to guard their passage. Elrond's reason swirled in cockeyed cartwheels; he collapsed, insensible.

In the days that followed, all Imladris descended into sorrow. The twin lords came home, but one was interred, his spirit gone to Mandos. Elladan healed of his bodily hurts, but he blamed himself for his brother's death. To his shock and horror, so did his mother. Celebrian was inconsolable and afflicted with a kind of madness, insisting her husband use Vilya to alter events and bring back Elrohir. Galadriel and Celeborn brought Arwen from Lorien and the family did their best to heal its broken-heart.

Elladan could endure no more, for his mother's fury did not relent. He left Imladris and took his own life, dying alone in the very place where he had failed his twin, and thus joined him. This was too much for Celebrian and she succumbed to fading; it was a race to get her on a ship before she utterly diminished. From the depths of her sorrow, Arwen chose the fate of the Second-born. She left Imladris and never returned there, dwelling in seclusion in Lorien. She was taken from this earth by the bite of a poisonous snake. Upon her death, Elrond handed over the Ring of Air to his law-father and departed Middle-earth to join his wife in Aman.

Imladris slowly emptied as the Noldor sought refuge elsewhere. It became a picturesque relic of what once had been. There was no one to foster the son of Arathorn upon the Chieftain's demise, and the child was murdered before manhood along with his mother and nearly the entire village in which they lived. The Ring of Power found its way to Bilbo and the Wraiths came for him instead of Frodo, slaying the merry old adventurer in his bed at night. Darkness grew unchecked and the elves left the circles of the world, driven by war and want to seek haven in the Undying Lands.

"Alas, it cannot be like that, either. Elladan didn't have the ring, you see, so he could not save his brother. He did not have the ring because Celebrian never gave it to him. She meant to, when it was time, but the time just never came."

The voice was gentle but insistent and though familiar, he couldn't place it. Elrond struggled against leaving reverie, sensing what awaited him was ominous and dire. He shifted, grunted unintelligibly, dragged the quilts closer, turned in the luxurious bed to avoid this interloper, tried to resume his wandering in the fair place in which his mind had just been.

"Nay, we have to face up to it." The voice held a sort of woeful amusement and its owner tugged away the covers.

Elrond forced himself to look and blinked in disbelief. "Elbereth!" he exclaimed and sat up in the bed, grasping the blankets to anchor himself. In fear and wonder he surveyed his surroundings, an opulent apartment bedecked in silk tapestries and plush carpets and furnishings inlaid with precious metals and jewels. Despite all this elegance, it could not be concealed that the room was carved from stone. He scrambled off the mattress and stood panting, looked down at the finely made sleeping garb adorning his person and then into the comely face of the Wood Elves King.

"You!"

"Aye, it is me, Elrond." Thranduil sat upon the bed, one foot tucked under his rear, the other just touching the rich fur rug upon the floor. "Now, it is a hard truth, but we are forced to make a choice. A grievous and terrible choice, to be sure, but it must be done." He stood to face his guest, father to father.

Elrond's eyes narrowed as he studied the elven king and the room in which they stood. He shook his head in denial; never had he journeyed to Greenwood, much less stayed in the underground fortress. _But this is no dream such as I have known or heard tell._ "This is some sorcery indeed," he accused, raising his pointing finger to indict Thranduil. "What have you been doing? Speak!"

But the king only smiled and shrugged, his image rapidly diminishing as if he were being propelled through space to some distant place. The room itself began to fade, becoming opaque like mist on the meadows at dawn, and through it Elrond glimpsed his own comfortable bedroom in Imladris. He tried to pierce Thranduil with his gaze but the figure was almost invisible. The monarch's voice echoed faintly ere he vanished: "Do not forget!"

  
In the low murmur of voices issuing from beyond the open flap he recognised his brother's and knew the other must belong to Thranduil. He inhaled deeply to calm his racing pulse and saw that he really had taken up Legolas' hand. He stared at the slender digits; the golden band was there. Memory supplied every detail of the dream and he knew without doubt they had shared it. Had they shared more? It was confusing and disorienting; the last things he recalled were Legolas' strident outcry as Elladan tended the injury. Thranduil had given his son a draught to ease the pain. Even as he tried to reason through it, the memory of the dream began to fade. He remembered his brother and the King trading bitter words and taking their contention outside to spare Legolas any further misery.

_That was not part of the dream. I stayed with him._

Had it been his idea or Legolas', Elladan's or Thranduil's? He couldn't resolve the quandary and it troubled him. The fingers twitched in his grasp and he startled, looked up to find the archer's eyes upon him. In them he found recognition and confirmation of all that was passing through his thoughts. Belatedly, he completed his intention and pressed his lips to the fingers one by one, watching the watchful gaze of the volatile Wood Elf. Legolas blinked and swallowed with audible effort, withdrew his hand and traced the bandaging that covered his chest and shoulder, groaned in discomfort.

"Tawar nín beria," he mumbled. (Tawar protect me.)

It made Elrohir relieved and he smiled, though he could not say why the simple complaint raised such joy in his heart. "Aye, someone should," he remarked gently and rose to fetch water, carried the cup to Legolas' lips and supported his head that he might drink. "Is the pain bad?"

"Very," snapped Legolas, frowning at him.

"Stop that." Imperious brows rose in affronted astonishment and Elrohir smirked. "That daunting and disapproving grimace you so often direct upon me, you know you don't mean it." The scowl went away replaced by a hint of an amused smile, but before more could be said Thranduil ducked inside the pavilion.

"Legolas, you should be resting," he admonished and sat on the camp stool Elrohir vacated for him, peered intently into his son's face, found upon it the familiar accusing glare, and sighed minutely. The trance was over too soon and he had no idea where his son had gone or what he had done whilst there, the precious elixir wasted due to the distraction of Elladan's unreasonable and argumentative demands. He did not dare administer another dose so soon. _Yet I may have to chance it, for this place he cannot be._

"He was," said Elrohir quietly and received such a piercing and speculative inspection from the Elven King that he caught his breath and felt heat rise to his cheeks. He had the uneasy feeling that Thranduil knew. _Impossible._

_What's impossible?_

Elladan's sardonic inquiry blasted through his consciousness and he turned to find his brother considering him with no small amount of displeasure. He certainly knew. _It was not initiated by Legolas; if you have something to say about it then address yourself to me._ Suddenly he recalled what had forced him out of the erotic dream. _Valar! We need to get him away from here and that ring away from him. Why have you let him keep it?_

_We? I am his mate, not you. I need not answer to you in any regard. Get out._

"Did you hear me?" Thranduil's irritated voice interrupted them and the Twins focused identical glares upon him. "Leave us."

Both brothers balked at being so peremptorily commanded and were about to instruct their royal guest that he was not in Greenwood when Legolas silenced them.

"Get out," he growled and the Twins were dismayed to discover his displeasure was directed at them. Stunned into obedience, they bowed in unison and left, neither one able to comprehend why he'd given way so readily.

"At least we have an opportunity to discuss this openly," offered Elrohir.

"Indeed, it is a difficult problem, for I cannot see any means to achieve my goal without him." The voice was not his brother's and Elrohir reeled to turn and find the Elven King strolling beside him, their measured steps noiseless where they trod the thick mulch covering the forest floor. It was raining, a cold, grey, biting downpour, loud where it beat upon the leaves above them. "There is something very wrong about your brother, Elrohir, and I will not permit his influence over my son to continue. He must release Legolas from this unnatural bond and leave us in peace, as much as we can manage to discover it after such a tragedy."

Elrohir stared at the woodland king and slowly took in his surroundings. They were not in Cardolan, but Greenwood. His heart leaped into the pounding rhythm of fright as his mind tried to gather up what clues might guide him to understanding. _This is a dream, but I am not dreaming it._ "Aran Thranduil, I . . ." He cleared his throat, met the sharp green eyes with trepidation. "What. . .when is this?"

"Ah!" Thranduil's smile was pleased, almost triumphant, and he nodded in satisfaction, placing a hand on Elrohir's shoulder in a familiar and friendly manner. "So, you comprehend what is happening. Good, good!"

"Forgive me, Aranen, but I do not," Elrohir protested. "Please tell me, is this really the past?"

"Nay, everything is the present, mellon. That's the key to it all, you see." Thranduil divulged this absurd belief as they resumed their stroll in the rain.

"How did I get here?" Elrohir began, but shook his head, coming to a halt as he pressed his hands against his head. "No! This is a dream. Legolas must be dreaming and somehow . . ."

"Of course," Thranduil confirmed, "but this is the wrong time. It is very difficult for him to get to a place before this point, for the trauma is so severe, as you must perceive. Even so, we must push him back a little further and then. . ."

"Daro!" Elrohir discovered he was shaking and backed away from the King. "This is madness! How have I been ensnared in this insanity?" He turned and fled along the path, shouting for his brother, and ran headlong into a bizarre scene of strife. A score or more of Wood Elves were engaged in battle against a throng of gigantic spiders. One dropped with incredible speed right before him and even as he drew sword to kill it, another attacked from the rear. Elrohir felt the jab of its stinger, as sharp and cold as any blade thrust he'd ever endured, and consciousness departed into dark eternity. He opened them to see a familiar face, haggard but relieved. "Elladan." His voice was a whisper and the next instant he stiffened, stifled a groan as agony flowed through every nerve, centring in his abdomen and chest.

"Ai! Be still, be still!" Elladan took firm hold of his twin's shoulders to steady and restrain his efforts to escape the pain. "It is quite serious, Muindoren, and you must respect the warnings your body offers. I have strived for three days to get you to this point, but it will be many days more before you heal completely."

"Valar," Elrohir gasped and lay trembling in the bed. His eyes drifted shut a moment, but a cup was pressed to his lips and he drank instinctively, almost afraid to look upon the person aiding him. He forced himself and so great was his relief to see Elladan that he grasped his brother's arm to assure himself he was truly there. As he did, his eyes caught on a glint of light and he trained his sight on his own hand. Upon his third finger was a fair ring of crystal and mithril and music and living light. "Elo!" he cried and found his heart hammering as he struggle to take it off. His actions were forestalled.

"Nay, nay! Leave it be, Elrohir, the wounds are terrible. Without it I could not have saved you. You cannot remove it yet; the danger has not passed. The poison is most virulent and the injuries themselves all but drained you of blood before I found you." Elladan quieted his twin as best he could.

"But," Elrohir tried to come to terms with what was happening. "Are we dreaming or is it Legolas? And if I have the ring, how will you save him?"

"What are you talking about?" Elladan sat back, disturbed, fearing a return of the delirium against which he had been fighting so long already. "Who is Legolas?"

  
When he was subdued and unconscious, they carried him off to the crest of one of the barrows. There they searched him and took what they had been ordered to seek, the Wraith's Ring, and also a fine golden band from his finger, and a fair crystal ring suspended on a golden chain about his neck. They took the long knife that had belonged to his mother. These things were set aside, treasures that would earn them a great reward. They had orders to kill him, but there was no harm in repaying their enemy for the deaths of so many of their comrades. For that, he needed to be alive and awake and so they bound him tightly hands and feet and held a vial of some caustic air beneath his nose. He came to gagging and gasping and knew at once the fate before him.

_Elladan!_

They stripped him and beat him with his own bow, taking turns until the wood cracked and broke across his bloody body. He had lost consciousness again before that, so once more he was roused. He was being held down by at least four or five, his legs unbound and spread wide. Madly he struggled and futilely; he was raped multiple times by men and orcs alike and shut his eyes against the sight of their leering, distorted faces swaying above him. They bit him and lapped his blood as they spilled their putrid essence. He was screaming. There was a momentary cessation of this abuse and he vaguely wondered at its nature until two harsh slaps across his face and garbled curses in Black Speech brought him sufficiently back to awareness to focus on what was being held before his face. It was his mother's long knife.

_Do they know?_

The detestable creature holding it waved it before his eyes a few times and then knelt between his legs. It was strange, for the vile creature was about to grant him mercy. The blade would rip him apart from the inside out. He would bleed to death instead of suffering the long agony of torture, and he smiled as he closed his eyes.

The killing stroke never fell. Arador and his Rangers managed to break through the resistance and chase after the abductors. The Dúnadan reached the grotesque scene and with a mighty shout decapitated the orc holding the knife. The others were already engaged in warfare with his men and so Arador dragged the remains away from Legolas and knelt to check if he lived. Blue eyes regarded him in fear and horror, shock, and such despair the man knew nothing he could do would forestall the inevitable. Indeed, Legolas' eyes closed even as he watched. Arador rose and threw his cloak over the naked figure, then hastened to search the area for the archer's possessions. He found them and took the ring of the Wraith, the bonding band, and the small crystal ring suspended on its golden chain. The first he slipped onto his own hand, though he had intended only to pocket it and turn it over to Glorfindel. The second and third he cast down, caring not, forgetting that he meant to replace them on the dying elf.

Halbarad called to him, pointing, frantic, and Arador looked out over the plain below to see his son beset. The Lossoth were engaged attempting to hack their way through to reach the hill; Elladan was seen carrying his brother limp in his arms, attempting to get him out of the melee. Most of Legolas' army was scattered in disarray, and amid this incoherent mass rode Glorfindel, encouraging, ordering, exhorting them until his calm determination overruled the chaos. At once Arador rallied his men and they charged to give aid to Arathorn, certain victory would be theirs despite the heavy casualties, and joined the fray with vigour and fervour, carving a path to his son. He did not feel the arrow that pierced him and found himself on the ground without comprehending what was happening, sword still in his hand. He could not rise and thought it odd, for there was not much blood to see. He tried again and faintly heard his name called, but he could not say whose voice it was. Then he was lifted and bourn away, though by what hands and to what place he never knew. A black and heavy fog descended upon him.

  
The valley lay stretched before him lush and green and kissed with the soft golden gleam of a new spring's dawn. The air was fresh with dew and alive with a multitude of avian voices carolling the morning chorus, the muted rumbling echo of the thousand falls, and the sublime harmony of the song of the First-born who claimed Imladris for home. Over all arched the spotless expanse of bright cerulean in which Anor climbed with persistent and stately grace toward her zenith. Legolas stood upon the roof top terrace naked under the sun and smiled, so happy he thought he might burst into song himself. Movement behind him preceded the embrace of loving arms that wrapped round his chest and the delightful pressure of a strong body flush against him. Lips kissed his cheeks and he half turned his head to catch Elladan's beaming eye; he sighed and presented himself to be kissed.

It was long and lingering and when over they were both aroused to the peak of fervour. He let Elladan take him right there, pushed up against the edge of the parapet, and exulted in the sensation of his mate's body fused with his, cried out as seed filled him and left him simultaneously. They stood panting for breath locked in one another's arms and in time shared another kiss. He traced the face so near to his and bent his forehead against Elladan's fair brow, hands carding ebony locks.

"It has been some weeks and I am sure now. I am with child," he murmured, smiling, and was instantly caught up in a tight embrace, lifted up and off his feet, spun round and round as Elladan danced, laughing, his beautiful face alight with such love and joy that Legolas though he might weep.

But clouds rolled in and obscured the sun as a storm thundered across the valley. He was far from their little house beside the brook, summoned by a cryptic note from his law-brother he could not ignore. Drenching rain turned to grey shadows the strange men surrounding him, and when he demanded to know their purpose he was attacked. Fighting in desperation upon a rocky height, he was overcome and captured, bound, brutally beaten and raped, then thrown at the feet of someone else. Death was upon him and he struggled to know who had brought him to this place, trained hazy vision upon a comely visage so like his Beloved and yet so different. Elrohir stood by watching all, looked down upon him now, a cruel smile upon his lips. "Finish him, Arador."

A tall, stern man knelt beside him, an arrow in his hand. Legolas cringed and tried to move, but he was held fast. The man smirked and thrust the shaft deep inside and tore open the womb, laughing as the nascent child poured out in the flux of fluid and blood. Legolas was dying, soul exhaling a low lament for the death of the child, little more than a tiny spark of life and light. He gathered it carefully to him, harbouring it, absorbing it within the radiance of his silver light. The last thing he saw before his spirit fled was Elladan rushing headlong out of the swirling storm, sword drawn, screaming, shouting, tears raining down, and Elrohir blocking the way to meet the charge, blade at the ready.

  
"See? Look carefully and remember, Îdê Silimê (Silver Heart). These are gonotinmî (fire stones). Watch and learn. I close them in my hand and hide them, but in my mind I still see them. I give them my thoughts of heat and light. I cast them down, so!" Flames soared up from the glittering rocks, leaping and dancing and straining to reach leaves and twigs to burn, but a word of command vanquished them in an instant. "Did you see? Did you hear?" she asked gently, peering into the liquid blue eyes of her youngest child, so like her father's. In Legolas the line of descent was pure despite his half-Sindarin heritage; her reward for all the suffering she had endured and the sacrifice of her elder son and her daughter, and all the ones since that never came to birth at all. He was like her father in essence, like his father in colour, so pale and golden, such piercing eyes that hid the soul behind the vault of the heavens. She caressed his silken hair and smiled. "Well? Have you no answer for me?"

"Yes, Nana. May I do it now? I already know how," the child boasted.

"Do you? How can you know this?"

"Adadhaer (Grandfather) taught me." So saying Legolas gathered the stones and though he could barely encompass them in his small fist, he filled them with thoughts of light and heat and threw them down boldly. A flash of flame sprang up and then built into a small column of radiant light, silver and gold, about half as tall as he stood.

"Ah, so I see he did indeed, iondo!" (son) his mother laughed and clapped her hands as Legolas stood and capered about the fire he had made. "And do you know how to command the light now you have summoned it?"

"Alnarwâ!" (No fire!) he cried and the fire vanished. "Teach me something new, Nana. I have known the fire song since I was just a babe."

"Yes, I think that is true, Îdê Silimê, but you cannot move on to greater feats until the fire you make grows to match your height. It is important not to exceed the strength of your light, or you will suffer."

"Oh." He knew of suffering; it was the strain in his mother's face, the fury in his father's voice. It was in the tears they both shed at times. Suffering frightened him and so he asked no more to advance his skill too soon. He looked upon her lovely face framed in lengthy tresses the colour of the magpie: raven's wing black highlighted with pure white streaks. Her grey eyes smiled with gentle love and warm pride and it made him happy, too. He twisted the braided bracelet wrapped round his wrist, wrought from her hair and presented to him only days ago with much ceremony in front of his Adadhaer, declaring him a true descendant of Noss Kjelepêk'lâ born with the telltale signs, and thought to query her. "Why do you call me Silver Heart and Ada calls me Green Leaf?"

"We all have many names, pen vuin. (dear one) You are both Green Leaf and Silver Heart, and many other things, too, which you will learn as you grow. By all these qualities you may come to be known among our people, even among people outside our lands. We all have many names."

"Yet I will always be Legolas and Îdê Silimê?"

"Always."

"What other names have you, Nana?" Before she could answer her son, they were interrupted.

"Curoniel," A voice called from the trees and mother and child looked up as Giliach hurried down. "You are needed, Aratari." (Noble Queen)

The Queen took her son's hand and tipped his small face up to hers. "You stay here with Giliach. He will bring you to the stronghold by the footpath, for I must hurry through the branches." She stood but the child impeded her.

"No! I do not want to stay with him!" Legolas grabbed onto her skirts. "Take me with you, Nana; I can go fast, too."

"Ionen, do not be worried," she assured him, lifting him up, wrapping safe arms about him. "All is well, but your Ada needs me now and you must wait a little while before you follow. Giliach will watch over you." She handed him into his cousin's care and scampered up into the trees, gone in a rustle of leaves like the wind.

"Put me down; I am not a little babe!" Legolas struggled in Giliach's hold and when that made him smile with amusement, kicked him hard in the stomach. That earned him a sharp cuffing and a sharper rebuke.

"Insolent child! That is no way to behave toward your elders."

"I will tell Nana you struck me," Legolas threatened, fighting back tears for the blow stung, but GIliach only laughed, so he added to the decree. "I will tell Adadhaer, too, and he will see to it you are punished."

"Maybe, and maybe it is you who will be punished, Ernil dithen." (Little Prince) Giliach sighed; he shouldn't taunt the child, but Thranduil and Curoniel spoiled him. Legolas was a tiny tyrant, wilful and disobedient. Yet his conscience smote him, knowing their fault was born of love for those children they had lost and whose whims could never be indulged now. "Legolas, you understand that sometimes your Nana has to help your Ada, because the grief and sorrow are too much and he becomes very ill."

"Yes, but I can help, too."

"No, pen dithen." He set the child on his feet and stooped down, held him at the shoulders and gazed into the wood-sprite's face, so fair and so serious it was almost comical. "You have been told of siblings and cousins, aunts and uncles long dead before you were born, and of grandparents you will never meet in this world, of my father's death and my mother's passing to Aman. You have heard, but these things you do not know, for your parents are here with you; you have not seen anyone you love die before your very eyes. No one wants you to understand such things, especially not your Nana and Ada. You are child, innocent, and that is as it should be, but because of this you cannot help your Ada."

"But I love him, too. He needs to be loved."

"He is loved and he knows that you love him." Giliach frowned, uncertain how to explain such a complex thing as grieving sickness to so young a boy, and was angry for the need to do so. He squeezed Legolas' shoulders tighter. "Even so, he does not want you near him at these times when he is most afflicted. You know also your Nana does not want you to see or hear the things he might say or do when he is so sick in heart and soul." The sapphire eyes stared up at him, wide and fearful and shiny with unshed tears. Legolas' chin trembled, but he nodded bravely. Giliach smiled. "Good. Then, do not add to their troubles by having them worry over you. Do as your Nana asks and bear your own sorrows with courage, as a prince of Greenwood should."

"I will, Giliach," the child affirmed.

"Mae pennen," (Well said) Giliach nodded and stood tall, never realising how his words were interpreted by his little cousin. It was not his intention to imply Thranduil did not want his son around him. He offered his hand for Legolas to hold. "Come, I have had a report that you hit the third target with your bow yesterday. Is that true?"

"Yes!" Legolas grabbed his hand and tugged, guessing they were going to the small arena his father had made for him behind the kitchen gardens. He skipped along, chattering avidly about his favourite subject, happy to forget about the shadows that clung so heavily to his father that his mother had to abandon him at times and his Ada could not endure the sight of him.

Unfortunately, such episodes were all too common and neither Legolas nor Giliach found anything unusual in the fact that Curoniel did not return by day's end, nor for the evening meal, nor to settle her son for the night. When dawn broke and she still did not appear, this also was no cause for alarm. At times, many days might elapse before Thranduil was strong enough to be apart from her, and as his sorrow was also hers, she often descended into bouts of grieving herself and had need of seclusion and rest, generally at Sad Aer, the holy place where the bones of all her ancestors lay buried in a high, green mound amid a circle of mighty oaks. There she had indeed gone after tending her mate, so to weep and ease her heart before returning to tend her last child, but from there she never returned.

What had happened none could say. When the site was searched, no signs of struggle were found. There were no remains, no bodies of enemies to show that she had fought for her life. She was simply gone and all of Greenwood mourned. Some said she had gone into the mound and laid her life down there, unable to carry the burden of sorrow any longer, but none dared enter in to find out, not even her Adar, who lay prostrate before the doorway and wept for days and days. Thranduil was inconsolable and everyone thought he was truly lost.

It fell to Giliach to tell Legolas that his mother was lost to grief. The child did not believe him and would have the forest searched, too young to understand that this had already been done. He blamed his cousin for her death, believing that while they had wiled away the day in archery practise and rambles in the trees, she was fighting for her life. Unable to encompass that she would ever leave him wilfully, he accused Giliach of treachery, saying he refused to send out Thranduil's warriors to keep her safe.

Once more the regency fell upon Thranduil's nephew and he took up the duty eagerly, but the belligerent child he could not manage, nor his father, lost to raving madness in his sorrow and his rage. Then he took Legolas by the hand and led him to Thranduil's chambers and crouched down before his cousin, again taking the slight frame between hsi sturdy grip, and met the angry blue eyes.

"Now it is for you to succour your Adar, for your mother is never going to return here. Now you perceive what sorrow is and you begin to know the rage spawned by this kind of hurt. Upon me you loose it, but that is nothing. You will understand Thranduil now and he you. Either both of you will live or both of you will fade." So saying, he thrust the child through the door to the king's chambers and locked him inside.

  
He came upon them encamped betwixt the South Downs and the Last Bridge; Glorfindel rode out to meet him, dismounting and bowing low. The scene was not so terrible, nothing like his imagination had supplied and the vision foretold, but this display of order and discipline was but a veneer applied over such raw misery and shock that the senses were assaulted with it to an unbearable degree. Such a stench of defeat clung to the diminished army that it was a wonder all of them had not deserted. Elrond scanned the neat rows of tents and the stiff attention of the sentries and perceived both Glorfindel's will at work and that of the woodland archer who had assembled and trained these unlikely allies. He passed over them and let his eyes rest upon a collection of pavilions gathered in the centre where the wounded lay.

"He lives, Hiren, and Elladan has not left his side," Glorfindel assured him immediately.

"Thank you, mellon," Elrond's face remained tense, the strain of his hard ride to reach them apparent in the fatigue that dulled his cool grey eyes and the wet and lathered coat of his valiant mount. He jumped from the horse's back and fell into step alongside the legendary general. "I would expect no less, of course. And Elrohir?"

Glorfindel was taken aback and halted with a start, eyes large and filled with remorse. "Forgive me, Hiren; it was to Elrohir I referred," he said contritely. "I thought you understood; my message. . ." The rest of his words became superfluous for the elven lord was running for the tents. The Balrog Slayer sighed and moved on to confer with the captain of the troops his lord had brought with him, sending them to rest and refresh themselves before relieving the weary combatants remaining in the camp.

Elrond reached the small field hospital and took in at a glance soldiers standing in solemn ranks surrounding the tent, some bandaged and all bloody, one a giant of a man leaning his gaunt frame against the standard he held; its banner ragged and stained with gore hanging limp against the long spear. The man watched him closely but did not hinder his approach, bowing low as Elrond ducked under the opening in the first hut. Elladan turned to see who had entered and rose from his brother's bedside with an exclamation of gladness on his lips, rattling off agitated fears and apologies as he came and clasped his father's hand.

"Thank the Valar you have come, Ada! I will never forgive myself; the wounds are terrible and he's lost so much blood. I cannot find Nana's ring. I gave it to Legolas and the Orcs have taken it. But you are here now and you will save him,"

"Yes, ionen, I am here. Be at peace," Elrond offered this minimal comfort and hurried to Elrohir's cot. His youngest son lay motionless and pale, eyes closed and chest barely moving so faint was his respiration. The bandages concealed injuries to the abdomen and shoulder and swathed nearly his entire torso. A nasty gash across the forehead had been neatly stitched and looked to be healing cleanly; a very good sign. Elrond inhaled and released a deep breath and set to work. All the injuries were checked for any sign of internal bleeding, and all seemed as it should be, evidence of the body's efforts to repair itself apparent. He sent a brief jolt of Vilya's light through Elrohir and the impact of the energy brought him round with a low moan. His eyes blinked open and fixed on his father.

"Be still and do not try to speak or move," Elrond cautioned softly, smiling, and leaned low to press a kiss to his son's cheek since the brow was injured. "You are going to be very weak for a time, but you will heal." There was a flicker of grateful comprehension in the pained grey eyes and then they slipped shut anew as Elrohir resumed a healing sleep.

"You are certain he is out of danger?" Elladan asked quietly, taking his seat on a low camp stool beside the cot. He took up his brother's hand and held it between his.

"Yes, the wounds are clean; I see no indication of infection or poison to worry us. He will need a long rest and it will be a slow recovery, but he will be fine in time." Elrond watched his elder son's tender ministrations and though in other circumstances he would have been glad of it, today it was disturbing. "Elladan," his voice was curt as he looked to the next cot, for there lay the senseless Wood Elf. "how is Legolas?" Elladan's stool stood betwixt the two beds and he set down his brother's hand and turned about to peer at the motionless form beside him.

"Ai Adar, I fear he is beyond all hope. The things done to him . . . I cannot speak of it!"

"That is terrible news," Elrond raised a brow, displeased with Elladan's demeanour for unsorted reasons, vague and troubling. He motioned his son aside and bent over the still figure, stomach tightening at a malodorous stench that surrounded the wounded warrior. He was already more dead than alive, but Elrond was determined to try. The investigation took much longer and cleaning all the injuries took time. There was barely a trickle of blood moving through Legolas' veins and respiration was all but halted. Yet Elrond deemed his son wrong despite the horrendous damage done. "He is not beyond hope," he announced, casting off blood smeared garments and scrubbing his hands, gaze trained on Elladan expectantly. No answer came. "He will need your help, ionen, surely this is obvious." He prompted, more troubled than ever, and his brows rose high at the strange expression of guilt and defiance that transformed Elladan's face.

"Aye, Ada, of course," Elladan belatedly responded, flushing. "I am glad you think there is a chance, and yet. . ." he let the rest hang and looked again to his brother, decided he must explain himself. "How can I choose between them, Ada? I did that once and came to regret it sorely. I could not abandon Elrohir now when he needs me most and pour all my love over Legolas, yet neither can I refuse him what comfort I could give. Only it seemed no solace would reach him, and lately we . . ." Again he failed to complete his thought and Elladan glanced uneasily at the befuddled, unhappy expression in his father's eyes.

"Lately?" Elrond snorted in disgust. "The two of you have not been easy together from the first night, Elladan, but that makes no difference. It is not a question of choosing," Elrond paused, peering at his son's stubborn countenance. He could not deny that his first thoughts were for his sons and he had worried more over Elrohir's fate, believing Elladan would give the bulk of his aid to the Wood Elf. Indeed, in his vision this effort to save Legolas had meant sacrificing his brother. That he had not struck him as unnatural. "Legolas is your mate," he tried to continue but again stopped and observed his elder son, marking the gentle and intimate caress of his hand over Elrohir's long ebony hair. Though the stool was between the cots, there was no denying which of the patients was receiving the fullness of Elladan's care and concern. Elrond felt his heart skip and had to exit the tent so powerful was his reaction, for Elladan's response to his brother was exactly what he would expect between mates when one was injured.

He stood in the sunlight, mind boiling with memories and impressions he had noted through the years, noted and quantified as the typical interactions between brothers, especially twins. His sons were intensely competitive whilst youngsters and fought one another almost daily, even as he and Elros had fought. They battled over everything: primacy in the affections of their parents, playthings and pillows, the best place at table, the best among the horses, the finest clothing, and came to impasse every time. Friends were hard to come by as neither brother was satisfied to share, insisting each comrade name him the choice boon companion. Approaching majority, they vied for the highest honours among their peers in weaponry and horsemanship, learning and creative enterprise, and romantic influence over any person who cast an appreciative glance at either, or both. Their animosity was legendary and so just prior to majority Elrond had ordered them to separate realms in which to foster through early adulthood, Elrohir to Mithlond and Elladan to Lorien.

The results had been gratifying. They returned to Imladris changed and tempered individuals, appreciative of one another and no longer arch enemies, each secure in his sense of self and assured of his worth as a warrior and a person independent of his brother. They became friends and confidants. Thus had it been for him and Elros, and until their mother's affliction, Elrohir and Elladan knew peace between them. They had never harboured romantic inclinations toward one another, though each professed a preference for their own sex. Indeed, Elrond suspected Elrohir bore a definite crush for his elder kinsman Erestor, while Elladan spoke of no such romantic encounters, whether he had engaged a lover in the Golden Wood or not.

_My memories do not lie. And yet. . ._

An alternative set of images flooded his mind and supplied a different slant to his sons' development. He observed the intense bond of brotherhood shared by twins, by he and his twin, but with a degree of interdependence he and Elros never indulged. The fighting was absent unless the one was defending the other and in all things each sought to give his brother the best of whatever was at hand to share. They were inseparable and did not bother to seek friendships within the community, content with one another. Together they fostered in Círdan's court, celebrated their coming of age in Lorien, joined the patrols of Imladris, and aided the remnant of the Dunedain. Until their mother's torment, nothing came between them, and then Elladan developed his insatiable need for amorous physical encounters. Somewhere along the way, he ended up in Greenwood one fateful day and bound to him a wounded child.

_That happened, but it should not have, not that way. He and Elrohir. . . their bond is too strong to permit such a link._

The thought shocked Elrond and he reached a hand to the securing ropes of the tent to support his balance. He could plainly see that he should have known, should have questioned them about it long ago, for it was as clear as day to him now. _They are mates. I did not want to confront this. It was easier not to know._ Such cowardice was mortifying and Elrond felt his face grow hot with both anger and shame. _Do others guess? Surely Erestor would have said something._ But it was no secret Erestor pined after Elrohir and would be as likely to deny the truth as he. _Did Celebrian suspect? What of their grandparents?_ Yet underneath all these woeful thoughts ran an uneasy current of incredulous suspicion. Ultimately, it was all wrong and he breathed in a sharp breath as a third memory interposed itself upon his heart, the source itself troubling.

_It cannot be that way. Do not forget!_

"What is the meaning of this?" he barked aloud, scarcely realising it, and was equally surprised to hear an answer.

"I don't know, but everything is mixed and swirling and out of place, great Lord of the Hidden Valley." It was Anzo, still leaning in exhausted attitude against the mighty spear. He was wounded and bandaged and weary, but as long as Legolas lay unconscious within, he refused to give up his post. "Long ago I should have come to you, Lord, yet my feet would not move until Legolas entered the western lands of Eriador. I asked him and he said I must wait. Is now the proper time?"

"What are you saying, man? What do you know of this?" Elrond demanded. "Who are you?"

"I am Anzo. I am headman for our Silver star and standard bearer for our company," he announced proudly, but he dropped his head in misery. "I have failed him!"

"I do not believe it was you who failed him, Anzo. Be at peace," the lore-master soothed. He turned and ducked back inside the tent, took in the tableau with a sickened heart, and felt such a sense of helpless confusion he simply stood where he was, heart and mind churning in quandary. There sat Elladan, in one hand his brother's fingers clutched tight, in the other the Wood Elf's, caught between the two he loved most in the world.

"I don't know what to do," he moaned, raising stricken eyes to his father. "Tell me who to save this time, Ada."

"Thankfully, it is not up to you, Peredhel," intoned a cold and angry voice and Thranduil stepped into the hut. Without hesitation he marched to his son's side and summarily removed Elladan's lax grip, casting his hand aside as though it were some foul thing, an expression of intense contempt and disgust marring his features. "Move."

"Thranduil," Elrond spoke, startled and discombobulated, for this was part of the dream. _Yet we are here in Eriador, not Greenwood._

"Aye, it is me, Elrond. Now please be so good as to remove your son from my way else I may lose patience and do him some small harm," Thranduil growled, his smile feral and frightening, for he would get to Legolas and nothing must block him.

"Nay! He does not want you here!" Elladan rose and accused him, finger pointing and brow frowning. And then a strange look crossed his face as he stepped aside, the words evoking a powerful sense of the past.

"Enough of this!" Thranduil called in his guards and they quickly took hold of Elladan and jettisoned him from the tent, following after. A tussle ensued; Elrond gave an incensed shout and moved to intervene, but a fourth ellon denied him. The Lord of Imladris found himself in the grip of Galion and stared into such a pair of fathomless amber eyes it made him shiver, as though the ellon was more than ancient and had seen the planting of the very roots of time.

"Aye, Hiren, you must not intervene," Legolas' grandfather interposed and at his speaking his appearance at once became that of any normal sylvan elf, save that there was a depth to him that few possessed. "Come, let us leave them." So saying Galion ushered him outside where Elladan was vociferously, energetically, and futilely attempting to gain his freedom.

No sooner were they all without than a wind arose and it was as if a drift of fog enveloped the camp. It cleared as rapidly as it arose and revealed that the scene had subtly changed; the cast of characters altered. Elrond stared from face to face, taking in Elladan held firmly by Thranduil's loyal guards, Elrohir pale, his bandaged arm supported in a sling, leaning on the strength of Erestor's arm, Glorfindel and Halbarad restraining Arathorn, who was demanding answers to troubling questions. Anzo stood his post in the same weary malaise; his Lossoth ranged in ranks about him. Elrond was strongly tempted to peek inside the tent to see if Legolas and Thranduil were within, but a terrible cry of agony furnished the proof to his curiosity.

"I demand to know what has happened to my father," Arathorn repeated heatedly and again jerked in Glorfindel's hold. "Release me!"

"Gladly, yet into the tent you must not go," admonished the Balrog Slayer.

"Indeed, Arathorn, Legolas is in no condition to answer your questions," declared Elladan. "Nor will I permit you to make such base accusations against him. Whatever Arador's fate, Legolas is not its author."

"Is he not? Arador went to his aid and for thanks has vanished, taken prisoner or worse!"

"Do you dare claim Legolas commanded that capture? Is that not he lying at the doorstep of Mandos? Do you imagine he would want such a dire end to come to anyone?" Elrohir pointed out.

"The ring of the Wraith which the Wood Elf carried is the cause of this woe," Arathorn insisted. "Did my father not counsel you both to take it from him? Why didn't you heed his words?" The man was overcome with fear and rage, but he had not the strength to escape his captor.

His words jolted Elrond from his stunned fugue. He came alert to the fact that these events were happening now and he must participate. "Are you suggesting your father has taken that ring?" he asked sharply, for if true this was a tragedy, indeed.

"I am loath to say it," Arathorn ground out bitterly, "but if not then where is Arador? Had the orcs slain him, they would have gladly made a display of their victory for all to see. Halbarad and I have combed the battleground for any sign of my father, and there is nothing. Nothing!"

"It is true," Halbarad averred quietly.

At this all fell silent, for contemplating such a disaster was a bitter subject to consider.

  
"Legolas, open your eyes, ionen, I beg you." Thranduil pleaded quietly, more terrified than he had ever been in all his life, in all its many permutations and variations. Never had he come so near to losing his child, his last child, as this; not even the battle with the Wraith and the cut of the morgul blade had wrought such damage to body and soul. He dabbed at the pale and sweating brow, counting the moisture a good sign in that it signalled the body still struggling to defeat the ills done to it. _But his spirit? Ai! Who can say?_ He forced this thought from his heart at once, for it was for him to say and for Legolas to say. "This is not the way; this is not the place. There is only pain and sorrow here. I know it is hard, but you must awaken, Legolas."

There was no response, though none was expected as yet. Even so, he would have his son hear his voice and know he was not alone in this nightmare, that it was only a nightmare and together they could end it. But the agony was very real and the injuries were the worst Legolas had ever received, and for this Thranduil's heart bled and his mind revolted against him, accusing him more foully than his son ever could do. His contrition was genuine and his desire to mend the rifts now threatening to shatter his precarious hold on the strands through which Legolas' life ran desperate. It was a mortal fight now; whoever was trying to wrest his son from him might as well surrender and let them be, yet such an easy victory Thranduil knew to be a mere wishful dream. He had awakened an adversary and for what ill reason he could easily guess, this enemy was playing with him and with his son's very existence.

"I am sorry, ionen, to have brought you to this," he sighed. "I was a fool; I did not understand then how the tide of time functions and that every ripple and swell within it makes vibrations that in passing through the webs of Vairë's loom in turn make their own disturbance, and all manner of things become changed and distorted. My machinations were detected and another works upon the fabric now, unravelling all we try to do."

Legolas stirred and his eyes opened for an instant, yet there was within them such anguish Thranduil wished they had not. "Ada," he tried to speak, but lost his way in the shifting patterns. "There is . . .there was . . .a babe."

"I know, ionen, I know. I am here. I will not leave you; we will be in Greenwood again soon. All will be well there."

"Liar," Legolas' mouth framed the word as he drifted off again, seeking for the place where the child was waiting for him. Where did he leave the child? How could he abandon the babe?

Thranduil groaned, taking up both Legolas' hands, but the ring was not there, no more was it round his neck. A second sign turned him pale as Ithil, for the braided bracelet was not round his wrist and there was no indication it ever had been. "Galion!" he called anxiously and his law-father came at once. "It is not here! I can do nothing without it!"

"Peace! We began without it and we can conclude this without it," assured Galion, but a glance at his grandson gave him to see this was a false claim. Legolas' injuries were much more severe than he had dreamed. "Ai! We are too late!"

"Do not say so!" Thranduil raged, taking him at the shoulders and shaking him roughly. "Do not dare think it! You said his fate is determined and that he must live!"

"So I did, but we have pushed him forward too far; his very soul is ruptured, Thranduil," Galion sobbed, tears falling unhindered as he collapsed beside the cot and buried his face against his grandson's thigh. "Forgive me, forgive me!" he cried in muffled misery.

"No, I will not forgive you!" Thranduil grabbed him and yanked him upright. "I will not lose him; I will not! You will help me do as we have planned or I will drag you to the throne of Manwë himself and demand your eternal expulsion into the Void!"

"Nay, Thranduil, nay," moaned Galion. "No threats are needed. You know I love him as you do; is he not my own flesh and blood? He is all that is left to me of my fair Curoniel, my moonlight daughter."

"I know not if your kind has flesh and blood indeed," Thranduil hissed and let him go. He paced to the flap of the tent where a sea of faces peered through the opening, round-eyed and sorrow-stricken: Elrond, his sons, Erestor, Glorfindel, assorted and bedraggled humans. The king snarled, eyes alighting on Elladan. "Where is it? Did you give it to your brother?"

"What?" Elladan had no idea what he meant.

"The ring, alhand, the ring!" shouted Thranduil, fists clenched as he fought to restrain his fury. "Give me the ring!"

"I do not have it," admitted Elladan. "It was lost on the battle plain."

"Nay, it was not," announced Anzo and boldly he stepped through the entrance. His spear he had left outside thrust into the ground before the tent, that the tattered banner might proclaim in honour who lay resting herein. He stood before the Wood Elves' King and met the sharp and angry emerald eyes of the Sindarin monarch, seeing much in them that was like his chosen Lord of the Silver Light, and Anzo smiled to mark this, bowing low. "I am Anzo, headman of the Lossoth and captain-general of our Alboin's army, for your son is my Prince and Lord, oh mighty King under the Great Green Trees. I beg your forgiveness; I was separated from him and could not reach him in time to spare what came next."

Now in his haste to speed Legolas' healing, Thranduil was ready to seize the man and strip him bare if need be to have the token, but Galion's steady hand stayed him and he contained his wrath. "Let him speak," advised the steward. "I would hear of how it came to be that Legolas was captured and then left to die, unaided and alone."

"Aye," Thranduil seethed, "that I would also hear. Speak, man, and tell us this tale." But already the king's eyes were settling on Elladan, who could not hold his gaze. Anzo spoke:

"At first, Legolas ordered us back that he might have a time of solitude after some argument between him and the Dunadan, but we were not far away. As soon as the arrows flew, we charged, but Alboin again ordered us to fall back. I did not understand this at first, but in the time since I have come to think he did not want us all to perish trying to save him."

"Yes, that is him," nodded Galion and shared a sad smile with Thranduil.

"Go on," Thranduil encouraged, "I do not believe you would obey that order."

"Right you are, oh mighty King!" exclaimed Anzo. "Even so, it was no small raiding party and soon enough we were all engaged. Try though we might, we could not break through. I heard Legolas give the elf-call and had hope for his mate to aid us, but he was also caught up in the battle and did not come. By the time we could move forward, the beasts had our Silver Light and carried him off. No sooner did we follow than a third column entered the field and we were again divided from our goal. Indeed, the battle was all but over before I was able to look for him, and when I found him he was alone, the cloak of that West-man thrown over his awful wounds, but no other aid had he received.

"I feared him dead, but the gods would have it otherwise. What healing I know to do, I did. In a while, we made a litter and carried him to the main encampment, but before we left that barrow-top, I gathered up what I could find of his belongings, and this ring was among them." Anzo held out the crystal ring and eagerly Thranduil snatched it up, too glad in having it to address the offences of his law-son. "If I may say it, my King, that he has lived through the worst of it and I do not fear that he will die of these wounds."

"I thank you, worthy headman Anzo, captain-general of my son's army," Thranduil paused to smile back upon him warmly. "There is a home for you under the Great Green Trees. Do not forget." With that the king turned his attention to his child and slipped the fair ring upon his finger. Legolas shifted and emitted a soul-sounding sigh and then lay still again, and Thranduil exhaled a deep breath of his own. Only then did he think of the other talisman. "Did you by chance find a bracelet made of woven hair, black as the raven's wing but shot through with strands of pure, bright silver?"

"Nay, that I saw not, nor have I seen it on Legolas' person," Anzo replied, unhappy that he had somehow missed that which his Lord might need or want, and bowed his head low.

"It is well, Anzo; it was not there to find," Thranduil reassured him. Turning to Galion he shared a bitter glance and shook his head. "You see? That is wrong indeed, for he never parts with it."

"Aye, we suspected as much. We have to get him out of this and back to Greenwood," the anxious grandfather agreed. "We are going to need help this time; he has little enough light left and I fear he cannot withstand the journey."

"Gladly will I give him my light," Elladan offered, stepping closer and withstanding the cold glare of the Sindarin monarch.

Before Thranduil could reply, a low moan, fractious and ragged with the agony of ages stopped all conversation and instantly every eye focused on the wounded archer. Father and Grandfather crowded close about the cot, Thranduil on his knees to soothe his son. Elladan made an effort to reach his mate, but Elrohir's hand held him fast and Elrond's warning eye subdued the complaint he wished to voice. Again the horrible sound arose and a feeble motion of legs and head announced the awakening, and Legolas opened his eyes upon his father's face. Soul-torn azure met heart-pierced emerald and father and son shared all the sorrow born between them, but none now of that rage remained.

"Ada."

"I am here, ionen. Please, be still and do not speak now. These are grievous wounds and it will be long before they heal, but it will be done; I swear it to you."

"I saw a. . . Ai! Ada, a child . . .a babe," wailed Legolas, struggling to surmount a pain he could not.

"A child?" Elladan gasped and renewed his efforts to get closer. Now Glorfindel and Elrond each added their strength to Elrohir's and forced him outside. "Nay! He speaks of a child, my child!"

"Elladan, listen to me, ionen," Elrond exhorted him. "Legolas will speak of many things that have never been real for anyone save himself. You must not give him any cause to hold to that one image, that single reality, Elladan, you must not! It will be the end of him if he accepts that fate for his own."

"What do you mean?" Elladan subsided in bewildered anguish. "Then, there was no babe?"

"Say rather this child has yet to be and, indeed, may never be more than a dream," warned Elrond cryptically, knowing very well what false hope he was presenting to his son. But he had glimpsed, if only partly and through a confusing cloud of obscurity, those many places in which Legolas walked, dreaming and living every lifetime who could guess how many times? A hundred? A thousand? The idea made the mighty Lord shudder.

"Indeed, your father understands," Thranduil stated, exiting the tent and scowling in distaste at his law-son. To Elrond he addressed himself, "You may guess the cause of all this calamity or not, yet it is my intention to repair the damage done and restore that which must be. In other times, we have needed no assistance beyond a like spirit to aid his passage through the warp and weft of Vairë's loom, for Legolas' bears the heritage of his mother's people and among those forebears is one lesser disciple of Vairë. Through him all the progeny of Noss possess to some degree the gift of dream-walking, as it is defined by those of that House. Legolas is the most adept ever known in Greenwood, but now he is soul-shattered and weary, and his mate has failed him one time too many. He will need other help to find his way now. Will you give us that aid, Elrond?"

"Do you mean through that which I Keep hidden and secret?" Elrond balked to use the Ring of Air out in the open world for such a purpose, knowing nothing of dream-walking or how it was done or what planes of far-sight might be invoked through it, and felt this request was partly the reason Legolas had been brought to Imladris, for that was in the vision, too.

"I do mean it," Thranduil stepped closer, belligerent and challenging. "Would you deny my son aid, oh much-lauded healer and lore-master?"

"I will not deny him aid," Elrond answered caustically, "but I will know what it is I am meant to be doing and how you guessed my children's Maiar heritage would make this dream walking possible. I will have an accounting from you, Thranduil, for the cause of my son's honour."

"Your son's honour? Dishonour is more the true term!" Thranduil roared and advanced another pace, but Galion came forth at this moment and again interceded, holding him back while Glorfindel and Erestor each took hold of Elrond's arms and drew him away.

"No, ion-en-'waedh," Galion reprimanded his law-son. "We need him sorely and he has the right to understand it. He has the right to ask these things, for how can he know his son's fate?"

"You answer his haughty demands, then," spat Thranduil. "I will not leave Legolas alone." He returned inside and sat upon the camp stool beside the cot and gently took up Legolas' hand in his. Bending forward, he kissed the pain-wrinkled and sweaty brow, whispering softly, "I am here, Legolas. You are not alone. I will take you from this and I swear to you now, this agony you will never recall, for I will bring you home and it will never happen. None of this will happen to you, ionen. I will bear it for you; my solemn word on your dear Nana's soul." There was no response, for Legolas had succumbed to his injuries and lay still.

Galion looked upon a ring of cold countenances regarding him through eyes filled with both suspicion and fear. Well he understood their dread, for the fate designed for a person was a thing to be both reverenced and yet renounced, for to know one's fate was oft times a hard truth to bear and blindness was an easier burden. "Lord Elrond, I will begin by offering my humble regrets for any ill that has befallen you and your sons for cause of my sorrow," he said, bowing low.

"Serious and foreboding words," Elrond's solemn voice was not unkind, though rife with disappointment and concern. He managed a sad smile as Galion raised his head. "So you are this lesser disciple of Vairë the Weaver of Fate? I deemed it must be so, Son of the Light; a lofty name for a lowly servant," he went on nodding sagely at Galion's evident surprise and folded his arms across his heart. Puffing out a disconsolate breath, he shook his head as he approached the Maia disguised in the humble shape of a king's steward. "I do not judge you. I confess I have thought more than once to try the same thing."

"Aye, yet you were wise enough not to attempt it," Galion bowed graciously once more.

"Say instead I was not tried so sorely nor tempted so relentlessly," Elrond replied.

"It is as I feared then; my enemy has been playing with me from the start," Galion swallowed back his bitter gall to have to admit this before the descendant of Melian, and his cheeks grew warm. "Playing with us all and I, not least among my people, was even fooled."

"Aye, it must be true," the Lord of Imladris agreed, "but you are here and we will work together henceforth to return things to the correct path. I assume your antagonist in this venture to be the being now dwelling in Dol Guldur."

"Yes, he is the only one with the ability to contest against me," the ancient Maia snarled. "As did others, I believed him utterly vanquished, more the fool I! We have been enemies a very long time. Annatar he has called himself and Sauron the Terrible is the name he has earned, but his right name few of us remember. Once, he was not so crooked and bent on hatred and destruction, but he turned to Melkor's malice early. The Splendorous Light of Aklarak'lâ dimmed quickly, though at first none believed my warnings. Alas, it was there at Cuiviénen that we first battled, for he was charged to learn of the First-born that they might be subverted to the Black Vala's will, or if not, destroyed. That I could not allow, for among the dreaming elven-folk slept my beloved mate. I defied Aklarak'lâ, but the favour of Oromë, to whom his service was pledged, rested upon him and so he escaped me, while I was chastised for bringing violence among the Star Children."

"Then, was it you who convinced the sylvan folk not to complete the Great Migration?" asked Glorfindel, intrigued by the story in spite of the dire circumstances.

"It was," sighed Galion. "I feared a terrible conflict was at hand as soon as the conditions were right, and the mountains I viewed as treacherous, the very place Melkor and his spy would use to kill as many of the First-born as they might, so to prevent them from making their escape to the Blessed Realm. In this I erred, for Melkor was happy to have so many leave, never to return. He desired dominion over the world and understood quickly what resistance the elves would offer. He wanted them gone; I did not see it. Woe to my people for cause of my blindness!" the old steward wept.

"I thought perhaps it was Galadriel," Erestor shrugged at his ignorance, offering Elrohir a sheepish and apologetic frown, understanding now, if only faintly, how long and how bitter was the feud between these two renegade servants of the Valar.

"Nay, though she has considered it and Thranduil put her to the test, feeling as did you," said Galion, "she would not use her Ring even for love of her daughter and grandsons."

"But might she not aid us now?" asked Elladan, desperate to effect the cure Legolas so sorely required.

"That she must not do," cautioned Elrond gravely, "no more can I. That is part of the plot Sauron hopes to bring to fruition." He paused, strange images passing like memories through his thoughts. He saw Legolas emerge from a dark hole high in the Misty Mountains, and the golden band on his hand was not the bonding band Elladan had given him. "Or one of them. By using the power we so discreetly obscure from all sight, he hopes to confirm both their locations and their puissance. He seeks to replenish himself and the burdens born by the Keepers would go far to doing that and worse. With them, he would at last hold the very fate of all the First-born in his hands. No need to conjecture on what he would do with such might at his disposal."

"Adar, if you refuse you condemn Legolas to a horrible death!" Elladan cried in anger and dismay.

"Not so," Thranduil responded from the opening of the tent and all eyes turned upon him. "Legolas is stronger than any of you know. He is fighting to live. I have aided him before, so have you, Elladan. We can do the same now and though he will not be strong for long days ahead, yet he will live."

"Thranduil, I do not know if he can withstand another journey," Galion mourned.

"We cannot leave him here in this reality," hissed Thranduil. "I will not, even if you have grown faint of heart. Would you resign him to Mandos now and give the victory to Shadow? And how would your beloved mate feel about that? Do you think she will consider your love virtuous and valorous or cowardly and craven?"

"Enough! Maybe he has earned Mandos," shouted Galion. "How can his heart be healed in this Middle-earth where everything is twisted and perverted from its natural purpose? Maybe your love is selfish and it is you who dreads to face my beloved daughter and tell her you were willing to sacrifice her son after all!"

"Daro!" Elladan sprang between them, furious and frantic. "You stand about shouting insults whilst Legolas suffers! He will need us all, not just me and not just Thranduil. You, Galion, must have more might to influence these dreams he walks than any of us. Yet I will do all I may, as will my brother and my father, too. He is my own and that is a true dream. I will not awaken to a world in which he does not walk beside me." Without waiting, he strode inside the tent and took his seat, taking up Legolas' hand on which the crystal ring was set. "You are my own, whatever anyone may say. For what hurts I have caused you, I beg forgiveness. You did not deserve them. But if what Galion says is true, then this is only a dream and you will awaken from it safe at home in Greenwood. I will find you there, Legolas. You know that I will come to you."

Motion behind him warned that others had entered in and he felt the presence of that same sentient magic he had experienced in the glade so long ago. Softly the chanting incantations began and the voices were Thranduil's and Galion's and his. A hand fell upon his shoulder, Elrohir's, and then the king leaned forward and gathered up his son against his heart. In mute appeal his emerald eyes turned to Elladan, and he smiled amid his prayers and held out his arms. In them Thranduil settled his last child and gently raised his law-son and seated him anew on the cot. Father and Grandfather each laid a hand upon Legolas' head where it lay propped upon his mate's shoulder, and their light combined to clothe the fallen archer in radiance.

Watching from the entrance, Elrond held back from the scene and watched in wonder. This was not part of any vision he had ever entertained and the knowledge gave him hope. Quietly he extended his arm and tapped Elrohir's shoulder, for his son stood in rapt amazement as a strange and beautiful light enveloped his brother and his brother's mate. Elrond met his questioning eyes and shook his head, a hint of a smile lighting his eyes, and drew him away outside. There was no need to speak; what was taking place involved Elladan's fate and they must not intervene. They preserved silence between them, each listening to the plainsong verses weaving a shield of healing illumination around the lowly tent. A softly voiced cough garnered their notice and in unison they turned to find the tall Lossoth, Anzo, stooping in a deferential bow before them.

"Your pardon, mighty and ancient Lord of Long Sight and Longer Life," Anzo said. "And to you, brother of my Lord's mate."

"What is it?" Elrond eyed him with keen interest, a fleeting glance of another similar meeting racing through his mind.

"It is the time; I know it now even as Legolas predicted," he announced quietly and raised his troubled eyes to Elrohir. "You understand it now and will not hinder them?" At Elrohir's nod he went on. "Here then is the bonding ring Elladan gave to him, that he might give it yet again," and the weary headman of the Lossoth held forth the simple golden band, which Elrohir accepted. "But that is not all I have to give. I know not whether I will encounter you again, Lord of Elves and Men, Brother to the Father of the Kings of Old from across the seas.

"Once my people gave aid to one of those mighty kings. Receive thee this ring, given to my distant father in ages past in gratitude for our service and aid to Arvedui Last King. We have held it in trust of this friendship between our people and yours. Now, maybe the new king will have need of it." Into Elrond's outstretched palm Anzo dropped a ring in the form of two snakes with emerald eyes, entwined, crowned with golden flowers, one devouring and one upholding: the ring of Barahir, heirloom to the House of Elendil, and he and Elrohir gazed upon this lost treasure in amazement.

  
The sound of the heavy iron bolt thrown into its socket reverberated through the antechamber and into the rooms opening from it, a hollow and ominous echo filled with portents and premonitions returning from across vast distances that spanned uncounted ages of time and space. Standing in that vestibule, awash in the repeating waves and buffeted by the ringing reflections of countless faces and unnumbered scenes of frightening violence and misery, Legolas whimpered in fear as he tried and failed to squelch his tears. He wanted his Nana, and sometimes he saw her smiling face amid the writhing throng, but it was just an illusion and he crouched down against the wall and covered up his eyes from the false images, crying harder. She was gone; she had left him and he did not understand why or how. GIliach's awful words played back for him and his uncle seemed to multiply into a multitude of frowning, disapproving faces scowling and reprimanding him and telling him his doom.

"Who is there?" a mighty voice bellowed, strained and cracked with sorrow and rage, and Legolas curled himself up into a small ball and wept more loudly. Thunderous footsteps made the floor and the child alike tremble, but then a sharp, loud breath and the distraught words that followed chased the echoes away. "Ai! How now? Ionen? Ai, Legolas, what do you here? What is wrong child?" And Thranduil stooped down and gathered up his little son, his last child, and cradled him against his heart. "Ai! Hush now, pen dithen, hush now. How came you here?"

Try as he might, Thranduil could not coax the boy's face to meet his nor the bright blue eyes to open, squeezed shut so tightly that the pale little visage was all crinkled up in such a terrible grimace of distress it smote the father's broken heart. His child was afraid of him! Then he groaned, knowing full well why this should be, and cuddled the weeping boy gently, swaying and rocking him sweetly and all the while exhorting him to be at peace, that he was not alone.

"I would take it from you if I could, ionen," Thranduil cooed into a delicate red ear-tip. "This pain in your body and soul, I would take it from you." He paused and kissed the damp and salty cheek, smoothed a hand through mussed flaxen tresses. "I cannot do it, for she was your mother and she has left us. Yet you are not alone and I will not leave you, Legolas. I will always be here. We will see it through together and prevail, ionen, though we must pass through shadow and despair." Even as he spoke the words, they resounded in affirmation through his heart and fresh hope germinated in that blasted soil of his shattered soul.

"Giliach said," the child tried to speak through his sobbing tears but could not manage it yet, and so he gave way to his sorrow and burrowed close against his father's chest, grasping a handful of the king's golden mane and clutching at the soft sueded tunic.

"Nay, nay, no need for words just yet, my little warrior. Your tears are right and good, even as are mine. We loved her dearly and we love her still."

"GIliach said," Legolas began again, raising his worried countenance to his father at last. The expression in the emerald eyes was not angry and he felt relieved, a shudderingly deep breath entering and leaving him so that he felt lighter when it was gone from his body. "Giliach told me . . . he told me you and I would either fade away or. . .or heal one another."

"Did he?" Thranduil felt a surge of rage against his nephew then, for it was cruel to place such a burden upon a child's shoulders, though it be a truth. Legolas nodded, eyes huge and filled with dread.

"Are we fading away, Ada? Is Nana in that place?" and the child shook violently then and hid his face beneath his father's chin.

"What? Nay, Legolas, nay!" Thranduil held him close and soothed him, troubled by a memory clothed in pale blue flames, a cloak of living light. "What place, ionen?"

"I . . .I don't know. A bad place, Ada, a dark place and Nana was trapped in there and I tried and tried and I couldn't get her out," the child wailed in misery, frightened.

"Hush you now, pen dithen; she is not in that bad place. She had to go to the realm of Mandos, ionen, for her soul could not longer endure the weight of all its sorrow and its rage. Mandos is not an evil place, child, but a land of peace and healing rest."

"But I heard Adadhaer crying out," the child went on, still more distressed. "He could not find her either, Ada, and he has gone looking far away."

"He has gone looking but not so far away. Come, I will take you to the place where he mourns for his daughter. You will see that it is a holy place and neither dark nor fearsome." Then Thranduil gathered his son against his hip and strode to the door, throwing back the bolt and pushing wide the doors.

There stood his loyal guards, gaping in surprise and wary dread, but he gave them a nod and a smile and motioned them to follow. They fell in step behind, sharing a glad grin between them as a bright blue eye peered at them round the mighty Sindarin king's biceps. One winked at the little prince, but the child did not like such impertinence and raised a brow in imitation of his father's most imperiously censorious expression. That only made them grin the wider and their smiles did not abate as the small procession made its way through the halls of the mountain fortress, met with happy astonishment by all who watched them pass, the grieving father bearing his mourning child, the pair clothed in the bond of that love between them.

Out into the forest they went by footpaths lined in roses and sweet lilac trees until the way widened and became a great green avenue bordered by ancient oaks soaring away into the heights. All was quiet and sombre here on Aran Lîr (King Row) and though the sun reached the broad road, today it was bathed in a softly pattering rain as though even the heavens wept, sharing in the anguish passing between father and child. At the end of the path stood a tall mound covered in fair yellow flowers scattered amid a carpet of lush and verdant grass. A rock paved trail ringed this hill and on this Thranduil's bare feet trod, while a look was all the guards required to remain apart and bar the way from the curious.

Round to the other side went the king, his small son in his arms, and there entered a fair meadow in which a clear pool stood reflecting the dripping skies clothed in mourning robes of drab grey. At the foot of the mound was an oaken door and over it a trellis stood, wound through and through with a vine so ancient its woody stems had long ago replaced the supports made to hold it. Before that door knelt Galion, his forehead pressed against the stoop, and though he was silent, his very soul's lament rent the fair glade with indescribable misery and despair.

"Adadhaer!" cried Legolas and squirmed to get down. Thranduil set his feet upon the earth and the child ran to his grandfather, who caught him in his arms and held him, wailing against the woe assailing his spirit. This set the boy off into tears again and his father as well, and all three collapsed together in a huddle before that tomb, clutching one another, upholding one another.

Time passed in frightening rapidity filled with vague and troubling scenes, though some were tinged with small dashes of beauty here and there. The images slowly faded away and left the trio exhausted on the ground before the tumulus, all of them recovering the present in hitched and stilted respiration. Then Legolas regarded his father's great sorrow and was moved to comfort him, recalling Giliach's words, and wrapped his arms about him closely.

"Ai, Ada, don't cry," he entreated softly.

"Oh, Legolas!" Thranduil hugged him tight and bawled fresh tears, but he was succoured by the child's love and gained courage from it. In time they sat quietly, all three gazing at the shut portal.

"Is she inside there, in that dark place?" Legolas whispered fearfully.

"Nay, only here body is in there," answered Galion quietly. "Her spirit has gone from this world, Legolas."

"Why did she go away? I know she was sad, but she did not seem more sad than always," he complained. "We were together and she was teaching me the fire music, which I already knew how to make. Then GIliach came and made her go away." Suddenly hot rage boiled up in his small body and his face contracted into a dire grimace, a memory of hearing his mother's voice sounding cries as though of pain, and Giliach the one who was there when he ran to help her. His cousin had been angry and there was a foul stink on his naked body as he put the child out of the room and bolted the door, cursing. Nana had come forth then and he saw that she was not hurt, but she was troubled and uneasy thereafter. "I do not like Giliach!'

"He did not make her leave, ionen," Thranduil counselled his son. "I know it is difficult to understand, but she has been grieving for long years. Her spirit could endure no more." His heart broke again at the confusion his brief explanation generated in his son's eyes. How could he tell Legolas about the other children? Thranduil feared the boy would come to feel his mother loved him less than these others, dead long before ever he came into being. He was too young to understand about the miscarriages, the still births, all their failed efforts to bring back those lost loved ones. He was too young to comprehend her rage at his father's refusal to try again; too innocent to understand Thranduil's fury when she turned to Giliach to supply her need instead. These were things Legolas must never learn. _If I had only said yes instead of no, then she would not have gone to Giliach, I would not have denounced her, and she would still be here now._

"Ai, nay!" Beside him, Galion gave a sudden jerk and a strange cry arose from his heart. "Those thoughts must be expunged from your mind, Thranduil. It would have made no difference whether you refused or consented. Her fate must be the same and had you agreed to keep trying, those young ones for whom she mourned would simply have multiplied in numbers; then she would have gone from here the sooner instead and maybe we would not have our Tinu'lân dithen (bright little spark) here under the trees." He set a comforting hand on Thranduil's shoulder and squeezed hard, peering deep into his law-son's stricken eyes, willing him to remember and renounce his false hopes, even as he had done.

"Aye," Thranduil nodded slowly, seeing there in the old Maia's face a faint and flickering recollection of some looming trial, terrible and destructive, that must be averted. "I will carry her memory in the deeps of my heart forever and some day we will be reunited. I will live in hope for that day." He looked into his little son's questioning eyes and touched the pale, tear-stained cheek, still so soft and fair in the innocence of childhood though fate had dealt him a severe blow and torn that tender-hearted, trusting virtue a grievous wound. Thranduil pulled him close in a protective embrace, wishing he could undo that rending hurt and give his son back the purity only possessed in a mother's love, feeling powerless and impotent to shield Legolas, devastated to have failed him so completely. Small arms encircled his neck and squeezed, a small hand softly patted his head, and Thranduil's heart broke anew as tears fell under the weight of Legolas' comforting caress.

"Don't cry, Ada; I won't leave you." promised the child. "Here, you can have the bracelet Nana gave me, so to remember her love and not her sorrow and her rage." He was trying to unfasten it but his fingers were stayed.

"Nay, ionen, keep it. She made it for you as a remembrance. Alas, she knew then that she could not stay here much longer and wanted you to have it. Someday when we go oversea, we will find her there in the Blessed Lands and it will please her to see that you have treasured it."

"But you do not have a remembrance, Ada."

"Yes, ionen, I do. She gave me a magnificent and matchless remembrance, the greatest gift one mate can present to another. She gave me you, my little Green Leaf, the very best of her Silver Heart." Thranduil bent his forehead against his son's and though both were weeping, the tears were not all of sorrow and none of rage.

  
"I am well aware of the tragedy that has befallen you uncle," Elrond announced calmly but with that undertone of insistent authority he sometimes found necessary to employ in cases such as this. Giliach was protesting, in cold and arrogant speech, the unexpected and unannounced arrival of visitors from a foreign and vaguely hostile realm. Lacking the quiet dignity of Oropher and even the brash candour of Thranduil, he did not wear the majesty of his rank and status well. It was the mark of an immature and insecure ellon trying to fill boots many sizes larger than his stature could manage. Against the simple sylvan folk such flagrant condescension no doubt made a suitably awe-inspiring impression, but the ancient lore-master found the king's nephew a rather poor tyrant. Giliach stood on the dais beside the throne, unable to muster the gumption to actual sit there, and attempted to present an aura of might and wisdom he would not possess for many long centuries more, if ever. "I am here to see Thranduil; where is he?" Elrond repeated.

"And the boy," added Elladan, impatiently pacing at his father's side. He was sorely tempted to grab the haughty upstart Regent and shake him till his teeth fell out.

"The child?" Giliach frowned and folded his arms over his chest, glaring to cover his disquiet over the presence of such important and intimidating folk. "What can you want with Legolas?"

"We want," Elladan spoke through gritted teeth, "to see him and his father. We are here as healers and I do wonder at your reluctance to welcome our aid."

"We have no need of your aid," snapped the lesser prince. He had rather hoped his uncle's sickness would prove intractable and result in Thranduil's departure for either the Blessed Realm or the Halls of Mandos, leaving him to take up fully the mantle of the monarchy. As to the child, he cared nothing about Legolas one way or the other. An ominous sound issued from the ancient Peredhel Lord and Giliach's eyes shifted to Elrond, grew round in fear. He had forgot about the rumours, the tales about Elrond's ability to read the hearts and minds of those near at hand.

"On the contrary, it is obvious that a dark shadow has fallen upon this place," Elrond told him, saddened by the evil that had infected this prince of the forest world. Giliach was riddled with unrelenting guilt and dread and a thinly disguised ambition that impelled him to deceit and defiance. He lifted his hand and a subtle gleam began to fill the cavernous hall. Giliach cried out and retreated from it. "Be at peace," Elrond told him quietly and suddenly the ellon dropped down on the step of the dais, covering his face and groaning.

"I only meant to help," he mumbled behind his fingers, not daring to raise his eyes to the perilous elf-lord.

"Ai Valar," fumed Elladan, quite out of patience. "No one is accusing you of anything, Giliach. Just tell us where they are and give us a guide to take us there."

At this moment there was a loud commotion in the corridor and the happy noise of many voices offering kindly and genuine felicities in hopeful tones. The doors were thrown wide by two liveried guards who took in the situation with knowing smirks for the Regent and grateful ones for the visitors. In clear tones they announced the imminent arrival of their King and Lord, quite unnecessarily as Thranduil strolled in right behind them, Galion at his side and Legolas on his hip. The king's eyes opened wide and he smiled, though the evidence of his grief was plain to see.

"Elrond!" he exclaimed in surprise. "I am glad to see you, mellon." Then Galion nudged him and he reined back his enthusiasm a mite and made a very proper bow as he ascended the dais. "Welcome to the Halls of the Woodland Realm. To what grace do we owe the honour of such a visit by so esteemed a guest?"

Elrond could not suppress his amused smile over the Woodland King's spontaneous response and offered a bow of his own. "I had word of the terrible loss you have suffered," he said, becoming serious as his eyes swept the suffering trio, his gaze resting long on the child. "We have come to offer the comfort of friends and the light of healing to strengthen you and your family."

"Aye, you have known such pain, indeed," the king murmured sadly. He glanced first at Elladan and then at Galion, who nodded to confirm his approval. "I would speak with you, mellon, in a more private place, if you would agree."

"It is for this I have journeyed hence," Elrond nodded. "That we may commiserate with one another and rebuild the fortitude such dire experiences degrade in those destined to endure them."

"Yet my little son grows impatient to resume those activities most beloved of youthful hearts, and such deep discussions are beyond his comprehension at his current age," Thranduil continued, eyes flickering first to Elladan, who stared in transfixed attention upon Legolas, and then to his last child, who peered shyly at the raven-haired lord. "I wonder if your son would consent to be entertained by mine whilst we confer together?"

"Yes," Elladan answered immediately, a friendly smile trained on the little boy. He held out his hand to him. "News has come to me in Imladris that you are an accomplished archer, Legolas."

The child's eyes grew so wide he looked to have some relatives among the owls; he stared at this tall and imposing warrior from far away, absolutely stunned to learn he knew who he was and had heard of his talent with the bow. Legolas turned his gaze upon his father, for while he was intrigued and pleased by this unexpected renown, he did not want to leave his Ada alone. Giliach's words had made an indelible impact upon him. "Will you be all right, Ada, if I go for just a little while?"

"Aye, ionen," Thranduil hugged him and kissed his cheek. "I will be well. See, you leave me in the company of the greatest healer in all of Arda. Be at peace and do for me this favour, for it is not meet to permit so important and esteemed a visitor as Elladan of Imladris to go without the hospitable courtesy for which your Nana is so famous. It is to you to uphold the dignity of both Houses, Legolas. Can you attend this duty as Greenwood's prince and heir?"

"Aye, Ada, I will make our guest welcome," Legolas nodded regally, quite serious despite the smiles he noted on the faces of the adults in the room. He extricated himself from his father's arms and stood before the lords of Imladris. He bowed to them and then took Elladan's hand. "How is it you have heard of me, Hîr Elladan?" he asked as they exited the room.

"Just Elladan, Ernilen, and I believe your father's last letter to my father expressed his pride in your accomplishments quite fully. At once I was intrigued to meet so adept a warrior, especially one so young."

"Ai, call me Legolas," the child groused, swinging Elladan's hand as he skipped past the grinning guards, favouring them with his most daunting glare for their impertinence, which only inspired chuckles that he found slightly infuriating, but also pleasing. "I want to hear all about Imladris. Are there really a thousand waterfalls there? And where is your brother and sister? I do not have any brothers or sisters living; they are all in Mandos. Giliach is not at all like a brother. Do you ever use a bow or always a great sword? My Ada likes a sword better, but I prefer the bow like my Nana and my Adadhaer. How many Orcs have you killed? Have you ever fought a troll and do they really turn to stone in the daylight?" His chattering voice retreated with him and Elladan could hardly find a pause in which to make any answers, but he did not care. Elrond and Thranduil followed them out and observed, sharing resigned glances and simultaneous shrugs.

"It is their fate," offered Thranduil. "I am content."

"As am I," agreed Elrond. They turned aside to the king's private chambers and there the two shared much of their sorrow and grief together.

Many days the visitors remained in the Woodland Realm. The rulers found that the unburdening of their inner-most hearts gave them hope and renewed their convictions to remain steadfast in the face of their woe, as some things could only be expressed to one who had also endured that rending loss of a beloved mate. To Elrond Thranduil told the entire story of his wife's disappearance and wept in regret for his judgement and condemnation of her weakness, wishing he could revoke those ugly words. To Thranduil Elrond admitted his exasperated outrage and resentment over Celebrian's desertion of him and their family, for so he deemed it. The pair managed to absolve one another in the course of mutually divulging their wrath and their contrition.

Much progress was made toward the healing of both their spirits, and even Giliach experienced a cleansing of his fea, finding he was compelled to share with Elladan the story of his hidden and unrequited love for Curoniel, and his ultimate fall from the purity of that love and respect he had nurtured so long. This comprehensive rejuvenation was due in no small part to the clean light of Vilya, which Elrond had decided to invoke. Against the counsel of Galadriel he made his decision, elucidating his belief that not to use the Ring for the purpose of healing was to grant victory to the will of the Nameless One. Mithrandir agreed with him, and now here in Greenwood Elrond discovered an ally he had never imagined, for Galion's true nature was revealed and the worthy disciple of Vairë did much to conceal the presence of the Ring of Air from unwanted attention. In time, Elrond and Thranduil spoke of Dol Guldur, and together made a pact to overthrow its ruler, setting a date for a future summit with Celeborn and the White Council to effect that end.

As for Elladan, he knew the instant he beheld the golden child that here was the centre of his heart and soul. He loved the child and felt in return the complete trust Legolas tendered over in instinctive and subconscious response to that love. They were inseparable and the child, who could not forget the loss of his Nana, was comforted to know Elladan, too, had known this same sorrow and survived it.

At last the day came when it was time for the visitors to return to the west, and Legolas was disconsolate beyond words. He clutched to Elladan's hand and pleaded to go with him. He begged his father's leave and implored Elrond's hospitality, but each adult denied his request, saying he must remain in Greenwood to grow and learn and aid his father in the keeping of the realm against the increasing darkness plaguing the forest. Then Elladan took him aside to offer his good-byes in private and gave him a parting gift, a remembrance that was more than anything else a token of his love and a promise of his fidelity. Around the child's neck he clasped a fair golden chain, and suspended upon it was a fair ring of crystal and mithril and music and light.

  


### TA 3019 ~ Helm's Deep ~ 

Merry gazed over the rugged terrain at the busy and mighty fortress of men where a great crowd laboured to complete repairs and restore the haven in case of future need, for the battle recently so hard fought and hard won was surely only the beginning of the strife and conflict about to descend upon all the world. He shivered a bit, sobered by the tale his friends told, finding he was less pleased to treat lightly the struggle of war or relish in glory the deeds recounted, thinking the contest between elf and dwarf was in some manner too frivolous for his taste. Yet when he looked upon them, there was little of mirth or frivolity in their eyes, no matter the light banter of their speech. Gimli's gaze tripped from spot to spot and Merry was sure he was reliving what had happened and who had died, and in the next breath he spoke of his own folk far to the north. Legolas' answer was even more disconsolate.

The Hobbit stared at the fair elf, wondering anew at the strange juxtaposition of fear and admiration his presence inspired, even when he was at his most relaxed and cheery. Legolas leaned with his back against the high wall of the Hornburg, left hand braced against Gimli's shoulder. For all the toil and strain of battle, his eyes were bright with an eager light, but then again about him a pale blue aura shimmered and snapped like a ghostly cloak of flames, and Merry decided he looked both perilous and marvellous because he was those very things. It was different than the earthy camaraderie the dwarf presented, different from the stern and serious demeanour of Strider, unlike the haughty and noble courage of Boromir or the bold determination of the Horse lords. Somehow, Legolas was not really part of the world of mortals, and yet he was at the same time more attuned to the life of Arda, the Song he called it, than any other person Merry had ever met, save only Tom Bombadil, and perhaps Treebeard.

All the stains of the gory fight Legolas had washed from his clothing and cleaned and oiled the harness of his quiver, while at his hip the white knife gleamed, reflecting now and again a glint of his eery elf-light. His golden mane shone in the noontide sun and the breeze raised its strands about him in a fine sweep of refined majesty. HIs blue eyes peered far across the fortress toward the high tower, focused upon two who stood guard there upon the door, shut and closely limned in some edgy energy from within. He and Gimli were discussing the dunedain, the Grey Company of Aragorn's kin, yet the elf scarcely seemed to heed his friend's speech. Then he spoke, his voice strong and yet filled with a strange quality the Hobbit could not name, almost as if he dreamed even as the words took on substance.

"And have you marked the brethren Elladan and Elrohir? Less sombre is their gear than the others', and they are fair and gallant as Elven-lords; and that is not to be wondered at in the sons of Elrond of Rivendell." __

###### (direct quote from The Return of The King, copyright J.R.R. Tolkien)

 __  
At this Gimli snorted, raising the hand from his shoulder a moment and eyeing the golden band upon its index finger, and passed his friend a wry look. Legolas laughed and the sound lit up the brilliant air and flew on the zephyr to the ears of the Twins, and Elladan turned to its source. Smiling, he left his post by the doorway and started down the stone steps, hurrying. With a quick squeeze of his long fingers against the dwarf's sturdy shoulder, Legolas bolted away and ran to meet him.

### The End

Oh, Sorrow dark  
and dense and deep bear me up, bear me  
for the way is steep and I cannot rise and stand upright  
to face the dawning day, its hours of cruel, revealing light  
which in some manner bold I must dare.  
Some manner cool and calm and clear, within it we keep faith, me and thee

Oh, Sorrow raw  
and rank and rare, we wait for night and its quiet, watchful stars, eyes of bright glass  
that see me as I am and neither quail nor scoff nor weep despair.

Oh, Night compassionate and colourless and sweet, stare upon this face of horror, sorrow, horrow, harrow  
and soothe the Hollow-husk, this empty heart where once my soul thrived. Succour me  
with the distant, indifferent caress of infinity that warns, cajoles,  
and promises that none of this matters, none of it, and all will pass  
just as soon as I go, following my soul and its endless morrows in oblivion.

Oh, Soul, poisoned and tortured and beaten bloody, reeved and riven  
from this flesh, my slowly decaying corpse which houses now only this  
disconnected and broken mind. Soul-shattered seeing that feels and knows and weeps yet has no voice.  
Lost, long ago lost, so many Ages full of choice words spoken and meaning taken, meaning less,  
and the howling is a silent storm that rages only in my empty breast.

Oh, Rage vile  
and violent and vicious move me on, move me  
for I will not longer bear this grievous wound in pliant defeat for lack  
of an enemy to hate, a foe to challenge, no fault or failure save that of Fate  
and how will I vanquish that? I yearn to make death and destruction  
a means to immolate this cursed pain left behind in the acid-etching  
that was my heart, my love devoured and dissolved and vomited back,  
Soul-retching defecation, absolving eduction.

Oh, Sorrow full of Rage,  
hear my cry for mercy!  
In Mercy consume me and let me free  
to taste freedom instead of the bitter ashes of misery and regrets.

Oh, Freedom, pure and real and right and true,  
buoy me aloft for I am sunk low.  
In these black waters drowning, So long ago you faded from sight,  
hidden by chains of endless memories  
of futures passed so long ago.

Oh my Soul, not tattered and defeated after all,  
but strong though sorely used  
In one hand I hold you, hand pressed hard above my heart,  
and the other clings to freedom and clasps the ephemeral shimmer of life and love  
and for that minute and infinite spark, I live.

Oh, Sorrow filled with old pain and new serenity,  
No more will I rage against this agony of loss.  
I accept thee now for cause of the love that spawned thee  
and the hope the shadows of rage hid so long from me  
and the love from which that fair, sweet glimmer will be born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All done except a short epilogue, if you want one.
> 
> ******IMPORTANT*******
> 
> OK folks, time for some input from those who have stuck with this tale through all its ups and downs. You get to decide whether Legolas ends up with Elladan, Elrohir, or BOTH! The epilogue is in progress now, but I need to hear if there is a preference among those who are following the tale. I cannot thank you all individually, so I thought maybe this would be a way to show my appreciation :) Comment anonymously or shoot me an email (erobey@gmail.com) if you have a preference :D


	14. Epilogue/Prologue

## Epilogue

  


### Olsatanô erin Fenamarth (A Dreamsmith on the Threshold of Doom) 

"Ai, he's a brute, this child of yours!"

"Is he? What has he done to you now, Beloved?"

"My legs are all afire and tingling as though stung by the retreat of deep and biting cold."

"I am sorry. Let me raise them up on the cushion."

"Nay! Be still!"

Legolas lay on his side, every limb limp and lax, head cradled in Elladan's lap, long golden mane bound and braided back from his face, which was pale and bore the effects of a lengthy and languishing infirmity. He was naked but for the golden chain and the talisman it held, reclining in the cool grass beneath the great oak tree he preferred over all others in this garden. His was not a relaxed or decadent repose, not resting after a wild coital romp with his mate. The posture described exhaustion bordering on collapse. Suddenly he tensed, legs jerking and hands clutching at the turf as a low, pained, exasperated moan issued from him. A spasm passed through his entire body and left behind a deeper fatigue than before, if possible. He lay quiescent again panting lightly, unwilling to try a new position and perhaps induce the babe to also move into an even more uncomfortable configuration.

"Sîdh," Elladan soothed, one hand cautiously caressing the strained spine.

Since he was neither physically nor verbally rebuffed, he took heart and settled his palm over the tight, round mound of the sylvan warrior's belly. A softly menacing growl mellowed at once into a grateful purr as the child moved in response to the contact and thus eased the present discomfort its position had caused his suffering Ada. Elladan smiled, feeling the firm shape beneath his touch that could only be the tiny soul's head. He knew better than to make any adoring comments no matter how much his heart soared at these indications that his son knew him already. Legolas was not, at this advanced stage of the pregnancy, very affectionate toward their maturing infant.

No longer comfortable in his body, he spoke often of having been invaded by their child, who seemed not to understand that all the shoving and kicking and stretching he was doing in there was painful. The size of the bulge in his stomach was not so great as some, a common enough trait among male life-bearers, but the amount of space the child claimed in the archer's compact and svelte body was. Elladan had consulted his father to be sure his mate was not carrying twin sons and the relief to hear this negated was terrific. Legolas would not be able to support two such vigorous and demanding sons. 'He's trying to dig his way out of me,' the weary warrior often mourned, 'and no jibes about my friendship with Gimli being more than it seems.' Poised here twelve days beyond the expected date of parturition, Elladan would not dare to even hint at such a jest.

Another groan seeped past Legolas' clamped jaws and another jerky contraction of his torso confirmed the sudden thrust of two tiny feet against his bladder. He cursed quietly and reorganised his lanky legs preparatory to arising, and Elladan at once assisted, taking him under the arms and hoisting him upright. The cutting glare aimed briefly upon him was all the thanks Elladan could hope to receive. When Legolas spoke to him at all these days, he was referred to as Ontâro (Begetter) in tones that were not complimentary in the slightest degree.

Elladan smiled; he didn't mind any of it. What his mate was enduring was probably the epitome of humiliation for someone endowed with such a strong, independent personality. Legolas liked to be in control of what happened to him and those he loved, and usually was. He passed a loving arm round the distended waist and used the other to drape the archer's right arm over his shoulder. They hurried toward a small cluster of shrubs preferred for such needs, Legolas' free hand supporting his protruding abdomen in which the source of his complaints did just as he pleased. _Not unlike his Ada, the wilful little thing._ It took effort to suppress the chuckle Elladan felt forming on the heels of this thought.

The sigh of evident relief as the bladder emptied made him frown, but he banished the expression and the disappointment creating it quickly even though he wished Legolas would not refrain from asking for assistance more readily. "Better?" he asked quietly and registered the slight nod and the sudden burrowing against his chest with great and joyful indulgence. Both arms wrapped round the oddly shaped frame and squeezed. "I love you," he whispered into the silken hair and felt an answering hug. Another sigh, soft and wistful, ruffled against his shirt and he passed his hand over the crown of braided tresses. "Want to lie down again?"

"Nay, let's walk a little."

They did so and the slow movements granted some ease to the sylvan's cramped muscles and strained back. They wandered to the brook and drifted along its bank; Legolas waded into the cool flow and they went on like that, Elladan on the shore, his mate in the water, hands clasped across feathery ferns and stiff reeds. Their sedate stroll carried them to the limit of the garden, a high hedge cut by the stream. Reluctantly, Legolas stepped out and indicated his wish to go back toward the old oak tree, but when they reached it he kept on, weary and tired though he was.

"He sleeps," he advised, unnecessarily for Elladan understood.

"Mayhap if I sing he will go on slumbering and allow you to rest a while."

Legolas shrugged and sighed heavily, not believing it for an instant but willing to try anything. He was beyond spent; the child was consuming him. He swallowed back a complaining moan as Elladan eased him down and he stretched out, hand bolstering his stomach the while, and gratefully extended his legs in a bone cracking stretch, toes pointed. He crossed one ankle over the other and settled his head against Elladan's thigh as the smooth notes of a lullaby filled the air around him. He never even realised he slipped into slumber himself, coaxed easily into oblivion by the lulling lyrics and the rhythmic caress of loving hands upon his belly.

Elladan watched him as he continued to hum the tune, concerned and anxious. His father was unable to explain the delay in the child's birth and though he tried to be positive, his tone and body language amply expressed his worries. Elrond had suggested that Estë's help might be required. Elladan had immediately agreed; she arrived and examined Legolas, confirmed that the babe was healthy and active and they need not worry over him. Then she embarked on an examination of a different sort, quizzing the sylvan prince closely.

"You and the child are tightly bonded already. What says he regarding the cause of the delay?"

"What? I don't know what you mean." Legolas had gone pale, eyes opening wide in astonishment at this query.

"Stop," the gentle Vala ordered and he immediately dropped a shame-faced countenance. "You and your little one have been through much. Is this why he does not wish to emerge or is it something more? Is this the wrong place and time for him, Legolas?"

"I don't know," confessed the weary archer. "We both thought it was right, but now I am not certain. What if I have brought him forth only to lose him again? I cannot endure it!"

"Legolas, what do you mean 'again'?" Elladan at once demanded, fear flooding his heart.

"Silence," Estë commanded but she did not make him go, for Legolas had his mate's hand in a crushing grip. The Vala sighed and reached out to take up the fair talisman round his neck. As soon as she did, a jolt rocked her slender frame and she gazed upon her patient in astonishment and wonder. "Oh, this is unexpected!" she exclaimed and immediately left them, ignoring Elladan's frantic questions neatly by vanishing into the ether.

He crouched before his mate and gathered both Legolas' hands into his, stared intently at the stubborn and intractable Wood Elf, knew he would get nothing out of him to ease his troubled heart. Elladan smiled, joined him on the bench, kissed him, wrapped himself all round the archer. His heart swelled with joy to feel their child moving between them. "I will not bombard you with questions, Beloved. Only try to rest, for he is well and Estë will surely return with good advise." He was immediately squeezed tight by the lean arms and a softly uttered Thank you met his hearing.

That had happened yesterday and neither she nor any other Vala had come to resolve his fears. Legolas tried to explain of his own accord, but the account he gave was filled with those contradictory and irrational statements for which he was unfortunately too well known. Elrohir was the only one honest enough to state what many believed, that Legolas was a little mad due to the ravages of sea-longing, so long endured before sailing to Aman, that and an unfortunate hereditary propensity for delusional behaviour. Elladan next queried Thranduil and received more talk in a similar vein of shifting fate and multiple lives.

Neither surprised nor dismayed, he had long ago learned to tolerate all these abnormalities, even when Legolas held him to account for words and actions he knew he had never done, never spoken. He was resigned to it and discovered it made no impact on the depth of his love for the woodland prince. After a wearing night of sleepless agitation, Legolas had decreed that none should pass the garden gate, not even his Adar or Gimli. Expressly forbidden were all of his mate's relatives.

"I need to be with you only. You have always been able to heal my spirit when my strength is wanting."

To this Elladan could but comply, gladly and proudly, for sometimes Legolas was too independent and seemed not to need him for much at all. There was no doubting the growing child's drain on his Ada's light was becoming insupportable. Legolas would not or could not hold back anything his child required of him and Elladan could do no less for his mate, but he didn't understand the degree to which the babe consumed this essential light. Elrond was equally ignorant of the child's excessive hunger and equally concerned by Estë's sudden departure and enigmatic words, but hadn't been able to console his son much for Legolas barred him even from conversing over the hedge.

Legolas suddenly gave a jarring jerk, legs kicking out and back arching, awake in an instant. He met his mate's compassionate eyes with a miserable groan. Under the rhythmic caress of gentle hands and soothing song, the babe settled and his Ada relaxed into light reverie again. Elladan bent over him and kissed him, smoothed his furrowed brow, rested one loving hand on the quiescent mound. If the child was not born soon, he feared Legolas would lose what little grip on reality remained to him. A thought filled his heart, one he had entertained with increasing frequency as the days passed.

_Why should we not use it? The power within it is a healing force and should produce exactly the result required: a true healing slumber and the onset of birth._

Numerous were the times Elladan resolved to talk to Legolas about it, but each effort to discuss the ring and its potential were definitively rebuffed. Legolas declared he would not now nor ever in future use it, keeping it only as a remembrance of their earliest days together in Greenwood. He wanted to pass it on to their son someday. That was all fine and good, and Elladan declined to argue too much, yet to grant Legolas that deep sense of contentment and refreshed vigour he required was too great a temptation. Indeed, Elladan suspected Estë had gone to consult with her cohorts about this very thing and would confirm his thoughts.

Today, he took matters in hand and removed the ring from its golden chain, slipping it over the sleeping archer's index finger. Then he gathered Legolas into his arms and carried him to the stream, held him across his lap, and resumed the lullaby.

He came in out of the rain in a silent and sudden whoosh of cape wind, a graceful and agile leap carrying him from oblivion into their midst, trailing the storm from his sodden cloak, limned in faint blue flames, and startled them to their feet instantly, swords already drawn even as he threw back the hood covering his face, and the swords dropped their points to the ground. He glanced at those abashed and chastened blades, smiling a strange, calm, ironic expression, then up to the faces regarding him in astonished castigation. He said nothing nor could they trust their voices, caught too finely between believing their sight and incredulous assurance that no one had been anywhere near this cave in the seconds preceding his arrival. Thus, to the accompaniment of thunder and lightning and the lashing deluge, he disrobed.

Swords returned to the sheaths made for them and were set aside once more. Naked, he approached the blaze of a neat fire and crouched before it, paying no more heed, acting as though he was quite familiar with them, had come expecting to find them, and that they should be no more amazed at this than he.

"Well," one of them managed to announce, tone and brevity evincing his disconcerted thoughts, eyes watching this bewitching figure attempting to wring out a lengthy mane of gold.

"Well?" he glanced to the speaker, shifted to examine his companion, offered again that enigmatic smile, returned attention to the fire.

"Well met, then," said the second and made bold to advance, hand held forward, eyes alight now with appreciative regard more than the vague dread they'd exhibited before. He was rewarded with a dazzling smile and the visitor's instant acceptance of his greeting. The close of his fingers round the lean and wiry arm gave proof to the substantial nature of their guest, though Elladan was the one held captive as surely as if the grip was continuous and confining, instead of too short and just firm and warm enough to impart again that sense of knowing them, knowing him, distinctly.

"Well met," Legolas was highly amused to see the brothers so non plussed and resumed his efforts to order his mussed hair.

The braiding seemed to hold them mesmerised and he let a light laugh break the mood, only it did not, and of course he knew that, too. He broke into a soft and lyrical song, slow and sweet and seductive so that it combined with the quick motions of his nimble fingers moving through the drying locks and synchronised the undulating motion of the pale blue flames. He was weaving a magic around them, but it was of a kind they would not resist and even encouraged, silent and still though they were. He did not acknowledge them again until the plaiting and the song were both complete, satisfied he'd entirely wound them up just as neatly. He lowered his arms and turned his countenance upon them, motioned for them to come forward to the fire.

"Where did you come from, just now, tawaro? (wood sprite)" asked Elrohir at last, he and his twin moving as one to seat themselves beside the fair apparition.

"From outside," Legolas told him seriously.

"Aye, no doubt," snorted Elladan, "but that word encompasses a huge terrain. In all the surrounding territory we made sure there was nothing moving here; the storm has driven all to cover."

"As it has me," Legolas concurred. "Am I not welcome after all?"

"He doesn't mean that," Elrohir corrected him, watching the lithe figure keenly as he rose and retrieved his quiver and harness and the compact, unstrung strength of a hunter's bow, settling down cross legged to inspect the weapons before putting them aside none too close to the flames. "You know very well you coalesced from the very air, from the very Music of this old world, indeed."

"So I did," Legolas agreed with him, smiling, "and surely so have we all, no?"

"Enough," Elrohir had no wish to play at games, eager to have what was so blatantly offered to them. "It is both or neither."

"Both, then." Legolas inclined his head and let them touch him.

They did not pounce as predators; they advanced incrementally, and he watched as one hand trembling alighted upon his chest, one hand sure and grasping enveloped his penis, not yet tall and full but neither completely soft and lax. The manipulations of that sure and skilful hand brought him rapidly to attention. The other, less shaky now, tried his nipples and since they were already red and ripe, withdrew in favour of a licking tongue and sucking mouth. He sighed, an urgent exhale, and permitted them to play with him as they would, explore as they pleased, tease and tempt as they desired. Having brought him near the frenetic peak of delight, they stopped and stood, stripped down and presented themselves for his approval. How could he not approve? Looking upon them, bold and aroused and fair and avid for him, how could he not? Again he motioned with his hand and they set about ravishing him with alacrity.

They did not attend one another at all, each excited to have him, to spill in him and with him, and with perfect harmony managed to mount him, Elladan in front and Elrohir behind, each one's cock boring into the twinned enclosures uniquely provided to receive it. Squeezed between their writhing bodies he could do nothing; his pleasure was at their mercy and they didn't regard it in the least, revelling in exquisite abandon so new an experience as this, and it seemed to catch Elladan by surprise when Legolas' seed painted his midriff. He found the Wood Elf's eyes then, seconds before coming in a great rush of ecstasy and noise. Elrohir followed immediately and they all sat, for they had remained on their knees, all three of them, throughout the joining. The twins rested on their heels with Legolas between them, pinned atop their laps. So they remained for a time to recover their breath and composure, and then Legolas eased forward into Elladan's embrace as Elrohir withdrew, happy to be gathered against the elder twin's chest, held there by arms that were gently possessive.

More time fled away; Elrohir was in reverie, stretched out on the blankets beside the blaze, Elladan slowly running a hand over the limp frame in his embrace, still inside him, growing hard anew as he thought about that.

Soon he shifted, laid Legolas down next his brother and fucked him intensely, vigorously, silently as Elrohir slept. The completion was as subdued in sound, a frantic gush of a gasp and a long shuddering anguish that left him so giddy with joy that he heaved Legolas up to him and kissed him, kissed him, and kissed him. Then he came free finally and still couldn't let him go, taking his place on the other side and gathering Legolas close, held him against his heart smiling into blue eyes he loved as surely as the grey ones staring unseeing into dreams beside them.

"You belong to us both, but to Elrohir you are a lesser enticement, for his spirit is too much bound to me to give you much, while my heart is given over more fully to you. Mate to both, but beloved by me. What say you to this?"

"I say it is no more than I expected," smiled Legolas and traced the fair features, ruffled through heavy onyx tresses. "Now, where is my ring? I would have it from your hand, from your heart."

"A ring?" Elladan laughed, then stopped abruptly, thinking it was no joke at all, and arose to search through his clothing. In no time he resumed his place and in his hand was indeed a fair ring of crystal and mithril and music and light. He set it on Legolas' hand.

"Yes, that is what I wanted," Legolas nodded, examining it closely as the light inside brightened and twinkled in merry glee to be reunited with him. "Yet it must not be worn thus except at need." Now he rose and rummaged in the small pack he'd flung down by the entrance, returning with a fine golden chain in hand. To this he attached the ring and round his neck he settled it, finally turning his gaze to Elladan for assent.

"So be it; it looks well," Elladan smiled, and even as he stood to claim his mate anew, Legolas backed from him into the gloom beyond the firelight and vanished.

"It is not in any plan of mine," intoned Vairë, beyond disgruntled to find herself called to this council as though the whole ugly mess was her fault, as though she had become negligent, or worse, in the management of fate. "I have left the unwinding of the spindle of the woodland elves to Yavanna, as she expressly asked me to let them become an 'organic component of the spirit of Tawar', whatever that is supposed to mean."

"It means they were to be permitted to advance according to the design of Eru," snapped the Vala of all Growing Things and the sylvans' beloved Queen of Tawar. "This situation is not to be tolerated! If you are not interfering then who else has the capacity to do so?"

"I see you've completely exonerated Galion," the Weaver seethed. She pointed an accusing finger at Yavanna. "Why didn't you do something about him?"

"Me? Is he my disciple? I cannot believe you want to foist responsibility for that foolish creature onto me!" She stepped nearer, fists clenched. "How dare you!"

"Oh, you were only too glad to see one of my sons brought low by the attraction of a sylvan maid!" Vairë tossed her head sending a shower of bright stars careening off into the void. "You have always blamed me for the Melian situation and this was your revenge. Admit it!"

"Sisters, please!" Estë intervened, trying to get between them and prevent the discord from escalating into open warfare. The last time the two battled, entire Ages of time and fate perished before they could even dawn and three successive suns were doused. It had required Varda's power to quell the duelling ladies. "This finger-pointing does not help matters." The gentle Vala of healing and rest was patently ignored as the volatile pair squared off again.

"Melian is no daughter of mine!" scoffed Yavanna.

"She is your niece and we all know your precious little sister Vana went crying to you when her stupid child became entangled with Thingol. You blame me, but I had nothing to do with it!"

"If not you then who?" Yavanna repeated her charge. "Do you expect me to believe that the Weaver of fate had no hand in the downfall of my Sindarin King?"

"Did you not ask me to leave them alone? Of course it was none of my doing! What reason could I have for such a thing?"

"Revenge!" spat Yavanna. "It is you who were chastised by Eru once I brought the Miriel issue to his attention. I know you have hated me ever since!"

"I assure you, I never think about you one way or another," sniffed Vairë. "I've too much to do and not enough disciples to see it all properly done. As Queen over all Growing Things, you are permitting the population of Arda to increase faster than I can imagine the design of their fates, much less weave them soundly."

"So you admit you have let this matter unravel as it would, taking no pains to repair the damage," Yavanna exulted and laughed in triumph. "I think I am no longer needed here," she told Estë and moved to go.

"You are indeed needed," Estë pleaded, "do not abandon your sylvan prince so quickly. Is his suffering nothing to you? And what of the child?"

"It is not a child at all, or certainly not one of mine," Yavanna shuddered. "I know not what it is, but it wants to be freed and is using Legolas to achieve that end. I am not the one to oversee such kinds of energy."

"Are you not? Who, then, joined living light to the Two Trees if not you? No other Vala has ever managed to imitate such arts," Vairë was not pleased to let Yavanna escape her part in the blame.

"Of which you are so jealous you cannot stand to look upon me," Yavanna retorted. "Everything you do but adds disturbance and increases tension, thwarting fate instead of guiding it. Was it not you whose counsel precipitated the whole history of conflict among the Noldorin Princes?"

"Ai! Now you want to shunt the will of Eru onto my shoulders! Did I teach Feanaro his tricks? Talk to your own husband about that! I did what I could to soften the damage, but not even Manwë himself could reason with those people."

"You might have insisted Miriel return to her husband."

"The First-born are not slaves to my will nor even to Eru's. She said she would murder Finwë if I made her go back. He is no prize and I can tell you Namó has nothing but trouble out of him and all their bloody-handed descendants. They are so far from earning true peace and renewal that I doubt any of them will breath again until the world is utterly changed."

"Aye, but who was it pushed Miriel at Finwë if not you?"

"Have I not said it was none of my design? I meant him to be with Indis from the beginning, but he would defy me and even Manwë to have his own way. Any fate but his own he would not abide, and see what transpired for cause of his pride. I am not responsible for what these tiresome elves do with the fate I have wrought for them, always under the guidance of Eru alone, let me emphasise. I cannot live their lives for them!"

"No, I do not believe you can," Yavanna admitted, troubled. She and Aulë were engaged in creating beautiful things, life and the framework it required, and suffered much when these inventions were time and again hindered or utterly destroyed. Yet she could not deny that it was never Vairë who engaged in such dark arts. "Forgive me, but I am sensitive to my helplessness to aid my lovely creations once they are out of my heart. I can little direct them and it stings that their fates are not mine to govern."

"No more are they mine, though always I bear the burden for it," complained Vairë "A weaver I am, but I do not supply the thread or the pattern. These are given unto me by Eru and I am not so bold as to suggest alterations in our Father's designs."

"This brings us again to our present concern," Estë reminded them, glad to see both Ladies calmer as the import of their actions was brought home to them. "I did not intend to suggest either of you should be held accountable for the trouble. I simply want your help, Ladies, in setting this aright. What is to be done?" Silence followed her words and great swaths of time billowed about in uneasy abatement whilst awaiting their thoughts. Finally, Yavanna spoke:

"Dare I suggest it, but there is someone who understands the manner in which gems and living light may be combined without destroying either one."

"No! Anything but this," Vairë was shocked, not at the idea, for she had been thinking the very same thing, but because the Queen of Arda spoke such dangerous thoughts aloud. "You must guess that at least part of this is his doing. I believe Feanaro is trying to circumvent the law of Mandos and the just doom of Namó. He wants to get free and thinks he has found the means in this highly confused Wood Elf Prince."

"Yes, I also suspect this," sighed Estë. "I fear we have no choice but to consult with Manwë. Legolas has the sight but not the gift of dividing it into many focal points. He can give full attention to only one dream at a time, and this is an unfortunate consequence of the combination of his heredity and the young age at which he received Celebrian's ring."

"Indeed, and I have often attempted to divide him from it by warping events. Every time I am foiled, for he has become so attached to it that he has gone back to get it even when I have worked frantically to make sure it is not brought to him by the Twins. They, of course, are useless, having as little sight as their Adar and none of Melian's art," revealed Vairë.

"How can he not love this light? It has been his companion in his darkest hours," Yavanna defended her favourite Wood Elf. "He means no harm."

"This we know," Est&euml nodded.

"I am proud of him," Vairë suddenly announced, giving her sister Powers a defiant glare. "He has done more good with less ability than that useless twit Galion ever managed."

"Will you advocate for Galion's release?" Estë pleaded. "He may be able to help us now."

"He would not come forth for therein resides his beloved sylvan maid. Indeed, he keeps Thranduil and Legolas from the reunion with the wife and mother for whom they have so long grieved. Legolas especially feels her absence as the time for his child's birth draws near," Vairë disclosed this unpleasant truth, embarrassed to have so little influence over her wayward son.

The council disbanded, Estë deciding for them that she was most likely to gain Manwë's sympathy to hear their woes. Her plea was effective; Sulimó granted the desired conference and a long, difficult argument proceeded. It was interrupted by an unexpected phalanx of guardians, who came hurrying to report that Legolas was once again wearing the fair ring of crystal and mithril and music and light. All of time and fate was halted so that the Lord of the West might try to prevent the realisation of a supremely disruptive and damaging sequence of dreams.

  
Legolas returned to Greenwood with his mates and found Thranduil eager to begin, Mithrandir and Aewendil already there and equally ready. It wasn't quite so simple as that, of course, for Thranduil did not want the three rings entering his realm, while the wizards believed the task could not be done without them. Additionally, Mithrandir wouldn't think of undertaking such a dangerous venture without consulting his superior and, thus, Saruman summoned the White Council to convene in Greenwood. As it was now to his purpose, Curunir advised that an attack on the evil fortress should be made and the Necromancer destroyed, for it was clear this enigmatic figure was their old enemy returned. Only Elrond disputed the Istar, but his warnings of visions and portents were ignored.

The three Keepers readied themselves to use the power harnessed within their Burdens in a manner for which they were never intended, for the violent disruption of war. Thranduil and Celeborn mustered their archers and their swordsmen and even the human woodsmen answered the call to arms. Great and mighty was the army that besieged the tower of Dol Guldur.

It seemed endless and fruitless, day after day accumulating into months of bitter confrontation. Innumerable were the platoons of orcish men and mannish orcs sallying from the Necromancer's lair. They were repulsed time and again, but casualties were high among the elves and men. After nearly a year of perpetual battles and skirmishes, it was deemed that few defenders could remain within, yet not once had Sauron shown himself. Encouraged by Saruman, the three Keepers of the elven rings at last unleashed the combined power of the elements: Air, Fire, and Water. Vilya was the greatest and through it Narya burned with the heat of the stars and melted the very stone of the tower's foundations. Dol Guldur collapsed and as Nenya served to vanquish the searing flames, Curunir made battle upon Sauron.

It was a horribly spectacular and destructive fight, for the two Maiar had no qualms about the numbers that perished in the exchange of lethal energy, primal and inchoate, that ripped through the surrounding lands. Greenwood did not merely burn, huge swaths of the forest were instantaneously incinerated, the elves in them as well. It was worse than dragon fire. Thranduil and Celeborn watched in horror, each one forgetting all in their determination to ensure their loved ones were spared, and both were destroyed shielding son and grandsons. Legolas and the Twins roared in sorrow and rage and turned their wrath upon the duelling Maiar, no longer caring which one they killed as long as this devastation ceased. They could not even get near them, embroiled in the turmoil of fleeing orcs and men through which they had to force a path.

Elrond, seeing the vision he most feared unfolding, did what he could to protect his sons with Vilya only to discover the ring depleted, all its strength spent, and even as he reached his hand toward his eldest, the Twins were vaporised by a deflected ray of dark sorcery meant to destroy Saruman. Witness to this, Galadriel in her fury challenged Sauron and the duel between them was intense but short. The might of Nenya was never meant to inflict injury but to preserve and protect and nourish the world, and most of its potency had likewise been used up in quenching the fires as the tower toppled. The Lady of Light fell and never rose again.

In that slender second of Sauron's distraction, Curunir advanced his might, revealing a hidden weapon he had developed in secret, a crystal of unique properties fashioned on the principles that permitted the creation of the Silmarili. Its function seemed to be both prismatic and arresting, simultaneously dividing the White Wizard's many colours into their infinitely individual tones, each with its own distinctive power to overwhelm and ensnare, and as this marvellous energy overwhelmed the remnant darkness that remained to Sauron, it was gathered up and sucked into the heart of the gem, there to remain entrapped for evermore. Saruman emerged victorious and at once turned against Mithrandir and Aewendil. These two servants of the Valar were no match for him and were easily killed, their life energy likewise consumed by the crystal.

Even before the loss of his sons, Elrond knew it was a hopeless struggle, and even before that moment his eyes turned upon Legolas, struggling mightily to get to the Necromancer, author of all his sorrows and all his rage. A host of memories assailed the elven lord amid a voice echoing out of time. _Do not forget!_ Resolved, he fought his way to the last of Oropher's lineage, never taking his sight from Legolas, who fought with strength and determination; mad, frenzied, his entire being ablaze in rippling flames of blue and gold. _He must not fall._ Elrond prayed, begged, demanded as he neared, hacking and stabbing through the melee, willing the Valar to preserve his law-son. And then they were fighting back to back, but Legolas had no intention of fleeing, of surviving, eager to join all the people he most loved in Mandos. Elrond took desperate measures, turning upon the Wood Elf and inflicting so severe a wound that the archer collapsed.

The Lord of Imladris hoisted him up and fled Dol Guldur, a handful of sylvan elves and a scattering of men with them. One, a giant bearing a spear upon which was tied a tattered and bloodied banner, traded him that flag for the elven prince, glaring so fiercely that Elrond relented and permitted the exchange. In wonder he watched the savage man pause and bind up the archer's wounds; there were tears in his eyes.

With a frantic, gasping intake of air Elrohir awoke, drenched in sweat and trembling. It was impossible to enter reverie without reliving the ugly scene and watching the tragedy happen all over again. Usually, he came to consciousness with his brother's voice echoing through his heart, but sometimes, as today, a piercing scream called him alert. High in the treetop talan, Legolas lay beside him dreaming, face wrinkled in folds of despair and distress, eyes shut tight behind crinkled lids, the golden lashes all but vanished in the extreme frown, parted lips stretched in a horrid grimace, spilling such strained and anguished moans that it frightened him. At once he shook the Wood Elf's shoulder to rouse him. "Legolas! Awaken, Beloved, for you are dreaming again." The blue eyes popped wide as Legolas sat up suddenly, panting and panicked.

He grasped Elrohir's arm as he stared round, recognised their snug home high in the canopy, and sighed his relief into the air. "Thank you."

Elrohir shook his head, a disgruntled snort exiting his nostrils, and gazed sadly upon his mate. There was no other definition to give their relationship and he was happy for it, yet there was an emptiness that surrounded and isolated them, a cohesive force arising from a divisive void. That abyss belonged to the grief that had brought them together and the vacuum was a vast, silent expanse of emotional agony, for in it reposed the lost soul of Elladan. Without him, they could be as they were, yet to be as they were had cost a sacrifice neither could bear. Eventually, the sorrow would overwhelm them and consign them to Mandos, a fate neither would oppose save that Elladan would not be there to greet them. _He is lost forever, consumed by darkness, even as Legolas' naneth._ "I know what you were dreaming."

"Of Elladan, as were you." Legolas grumbled and quickly turned away, going pale even as he, too, issued a solemn sough. No words were required to understand what was passing through Elrohir's mind at this moment. He pulled himself to the edge of the mattress and set his feet upon the floor, watched as he flexed his toes wide.

"Aye, but I was reliving the disaster where we lost him. You were dream-walking with him. In that place, he lives." _And you are his mate there._

"I know what you would say. It is not so simple as you believe."

"There is nothing more straightforward, though I grant it is no easy task. Still, it must be done, Luthadron, and soon." Elrohir scooted over to sit beside him, settled a comforting arm over the Wood Elf's naked shoulders. He leaned nearer and kissed the high cheek. There were difficult words to be said and he held on tight to give himself courage. "You know that I love you dearly. I cherish the glory of our bond, Legolas. This, our home here, our life together, our history going back to your elf-child days, this is a lovely dream in all ways but one, but that one flaw cannot be borne. You must do what your heart knows to be right. I want him back from the abyss, or rather, for him never to have perished therein. I love you more than my own life, but - "

"You love him more."

"Nay! That is not what I would say nor what I feel." That it was what he felt each knew, though he could never admit it aloud. Elrohir bent and brushed aside the long sweep of golden hair and pressed his lips against the Wood Elf's neck. "Legolas, the guilt is destroying me."

"Aye," Legolas met the stricken grey eyes, soul awash in guilt of his own. _And what of me if I can achieve this?_ "I have tried, many times."

"Have you?" Elrohir knew it was true but could not believe Legolas had exhausted every avenue. Elladan was not meant to be parted from him thus. "There must be a way."

"I did not choose for him to die," the Wood Elf suddenly explained, hoping Elrohir understood this much. "I didn't know this reality held his death. I was just trying to - " He didn't know anymore what he was trying to do and gave an impatient shake of his head. "I would not have walked this path had I foreseen it. I was only a child and did not really understand then."

"I know," Elrohir smiled, a sad and meagre expression, and gave the slumped figure a firm squeeze.

"You know." Legolas peered at his mate, wondering if he spoke the truth. He frowned and shook his head. "There is no way you can truly comprehend what it is like."

"You are wrong. I have walked many of those dreams with you; I remember them, and what I know Elladan knows. In those dreams where he still lives, he knows. He would never think you purposely chose a course that led to his death. No more would I think it. Be at peace on this point and do not fear to choose a new path." Elrohir's heart began pounding as the conversation progressed, wondering if it was really taking place or if it was only another dream.

"Choose?" Legolas sighed, his worries confirmed by Elrohir's words. "You don't know what you ask. It has gone wrong so many times. I have searched for a place where we could all find peace, but every time I try to do something good and right, someone I love dies. I am afraid to dream another dream, Elrohir." There, the truth was out and Legolas braced for whatever diatribe might follow.

"Ai, Legolas," Elrohir breathed out this lament and wrapped both arms tighter about the archer, kissed him as he snuggled in close. "I don't know the answer to your quandary; I only know we must bring Elladan back. He is not meant to die, of that I am certain if nothing else."

"And who will die instead?" Legolas blurted, disturbed by Elrohir's demand. "I will not risk it." He broke from his mate and stood, dressed hurriedly and left the talan.

"Legolas!" Elrohir rose, donned leggings, and followed through the tree-top paths in the mighty oaks of Greenwood. "Wait! Please, let us speak of this calmly, Beloved." Ahead, the archer paused and sent back a gaze of appalled apprehension.

How could he leave this reality? In this dream he was not ill with sea-longing. In this place Frodo had not needed to brave the fires of Mordor, for Saruman never turned. Curunir received the One Ring from Bilbo and destroyed it, thus annihilating its debased lord. He and the wizards had left Middle-earth long ago. Aragorn ruled in Gondor, Boromir served as his steward In Ithilien and Faramir his regent in the north at Anuminas. Theoden King was hale and hearty in Rohan, his son and heir Theodred wedded to a Lady of Dol Amroth. In this life-line many who had been served death at the end of the Third Age would instead die in the sleep of old age. And in this reality there was a child about to be born, perhaps the very last elven child ever to be conceived in Middle-earth.

It was not perfect. Legolas' mother had perished horribly alongside Elladan. The Twins had come upon the scene of conflict and the elder brother acted as before, save that he entrusted Legolas to Elrohir, staying to attempt a rescue of his naneth, and there died. Legolas had convinced himself his babe would house Elladan's spirit, healed and renewed, for with Sauron vanquished it might be true. The notion of such a gift, to be permitted to create Elladan and bring him into being, to love him utterly and unconditionally without demands for his personal needs, to nurture and nourish him body and soul, to guide him as he grew, to have both brothers belong to him uniquely as no others ever could, all this appealed to Legolas and eased his hurting conscience. Thus, he was reluctant to reject this version of the dream. None of this had he dared share with Elrohir; indeed, he had not expressed these hopeful wishes to his father or grandfather.

"I did not intend to upset you," Elrohir joined him and carefully scrutinised the wary cast of the fair face, the spikes of cold blue cutting through the soft silver aura. His sight came to rest on the slight distension at Legolas' midriff and he settled a gentle hand there. "I did not mean for you to risk the child. I understand."

"Do you?"

"Yes." Elrohir realised his error now, horrified he'd placed this burden upon mate, disgusted that he'd failed to consider the possible implications for the babe. "Forgive me, Luthadron, I should not have suggested it. I know you must dream and that to dream as you do is difficult at best and harrowing at worst. Dream what best eases your heart. That and only that." He settled a quick and insistent kiss upon the frowning lips and again searched the lapis irises in which swam a young soul forced to live so many lives it had become ancient. "That Elladan be returned to life, nothing else need change, that is what I was thinking. I would give up my own - "

"No dínen!" (Be silent!) Legolas cried out in alarm and shoved Elrohir hard away from him, climbing higher to rest in the crook of the tree's arms and glare down upon him. "You and Ada, always making this request and how can I grant such a thing? You ask me to make it so that you will die! How can you demand this of me? Do you believe I could ever knowingly enter a life dream wherein this actually happens?"

"Nay, nay! I am sorry!" Elrohir had not thought about it in this way and realised he had just added an extra trial to the Wood Elf's long list of impossible tasks. Tentatively he grasped the foot dangling above him. "I do not mean that, Legolas. I just thought - "

"Everyone wants something; everyone hopes and dreams and believes their dream is the right one, the best one!" Legolas vented his frustration and fear. "I, too, once believed this lie when I was still a child, but it does not work that way. Each different dream is a new variation and none of the circumstances can be guaranteed. If one thing changes, something else will also change, usually many, many things are altered. I cannot predict what will happen before I enter a dream and can only live it out as it unfolds, suffering whatever consequences my choice engenders, until I find the pivot point at which I might force an exit into yet another reality, another version of the same dream.

"It is an unending series of scenes, shifting like leaves brushed by the breeze of Tawar's mighty breath, random patterns like enough to be beguiling, different enough to offer hope. Your dying does not ensure your brother living. Adar's death does not mean Nana will be returned to me. If I try to find a path like that, I might lose them both and be utterly alone. I would never survive that. And so it could happen with you and Elladan. I could lose you both, Elrohir, and without you what becomes of our child? Is what you want worth such risks?"

"Ai! Forgive me, please!" Elrohir knew he could not undo his words and set about countering them. "I do not want you to feel this guilt for something that has not happened." He hastened to join the prince and sat beside him. "Please forgive me and forget my foolish, ignorant, thoughtless request."

"I am so tired. I cannot go on doing this." Legolas slumped against Elrohir, a muffled groan escaping into the space around them. "I cannot do it anymore! What I lose - I cannot bear to lose the babe again!"

"Again? Ai, Legolas. I didn't know."

There was no sound as he sped through the corridor, feet barely touching the floor, racing over the elegant stone flags of marble and dark green serpentine, crossing in a flash of shining hair the inlaid pattern of the White Tree and the Seven Stars in the centre of the rotunda. The guards scarcely had time to acknowledge his presence before he forced through the ornate doors and burst into the council chamber. A voice cried out in surprise and fear; several men leaped to their feet, one with his hand upon a dagger's hilt, and at the head of the huge table Elessar stood up, mouth round and eyes staring in dismayed incomprehension.

"Aragorn! I must speak with you," Legolas blurted out, already at his side, one hand reaching for him. The man clasped it tight, but his countenance reordered into a concerned frown. "It is urgent!" the elven prince insisted before any protest could be uttered.

The nobles of Gondor murmured in discontent, but they left the room at once. There was not a one who wished to contend against the elven prince of Eryngalen and Ithilien. Man and elf watched them go and as soon as the subdued thud of the doors closing resounded, Aragorn took his friend by the elbow and led him out through a different portal into the private areas of the fortress.

"I'm sorry," Legolas apologised, "but I could wait no longer."

"Of course, mellon, do not disturb yourself," Aragorn's words were calm and cautious; Legolas had not been well of late. He wondered where Anzo was; the man never let his prince out of sight willingly.

They proceeded in silence until they reached the man's private study. There he sat the Wood Elf down in a comfortable chair and moved to pour out a portion of the elixir Lord Elrond had created to ease the symptoms of sea-longing, noting with displeasure that Legolas had popped out of the seat at once and was pacing in agitation. Aragorn handed over the glass and watched as it was swallowed down. "Now, compose yourself and tell me what is wrong."

"I'm sorry." Legolas shoved the glass back into his hands, eyes bright with desperation. "It is not in me to break my word, but -"

"Nay, mellon, nay!" Aragorn gripped him at the biceps and squeezed, almost glad to hear this confession. _At last!_ "You need not apologise. I understand and - "

"I can't do it!" the admission exploded, wrenched from his very soul and the damage done nearly broke Legolas. He clutched at the man. "I know I promised; I know I agreed, and I was so happy when Arwen came to me, so honoured, but now - "

"Ai! Be at peace!" Aragorn tried to calm him, led him back to the sofa and sat down with him, still holding his arms. The sylvan prince twitched and writhed in place and the man realised that there were words he must speak, and so resigned himself to hear them. "I am listening, Legolas."

"You are not angry?"

"Nay! Do not be troubled by such misapprehension." The man smiled in melancholy felicity, reached up and smoothed a stray lock of the golden mane back into place. Twelve years worth of efforts at cure had proved as useless as Lord Elrond had predicted; sea-longing had reduced his friend to intermittent outbreaks of insanity. He talked at length about events that had never happened and revealed a disturbing attraction to his mate's twin, though Elrohir had sailed to Valinor with Erestor long ago. "Go on."

"I didn't know how to tell you," Legolas resumed, head lowered, eyes shuttered. "I've been weeks stewing over it, arguing with myself, trying to convince myself I could do it. And I thought of sailing away in secret so I would not have to confront you, but my conscience would not permit it."

"Your honourable character would not allow it," Aragorn smiled warmly and settled his hand on Legolas' shoulder. "It is well; I will escort you to Mithlond personally and see you safely under way."

"What?" Legolas looked up sharply, looked at him in shock, hurt and more than hurt, utterly crushed. "I am not sailing, Aragorn." He peered into the man's troubled grey eyes, but could not detect any anger, only sadness and confusion. He swallowed. "Unless you are sending me away."

"Sending you?" Aragorn stared, distraught, for it was clear Legolas was contending against a particularly excruciating attack of the elven malady, his thoughts scattered and irrational. He shook his head firmly as he spoke, "No, mellon, I would never banish you from Gondor. Put that from your thoughts."

"I would not blame you," Legolas looked down into his lap once more, relieved but overwhelmed anew with guilt. "I thought to claim sea-longing as the reason - "

"Legolas, you need not - "

"Let me speak!"

The man bowed his head in silent ascent, sighing, mournful that he could not help the sylvan prince.

Legolas drew breath to steady his nerve and continued. "It is not sea-longing that forces me to refuse. There is a risk that I would not have sufficient light to survive, but I am strong enough to produce a healthy son, even if it cost me every flickering spark of faerlim I possess." Aragorn's posture suddenly grew tense and still, his face folded into lines of distress, and it warmed the archer's heart to know his demise meant this much. "I would not mind such an end, for I know Arwen will love him as much as I and care for him with as much delight, but what if I lived? What then?"

"Legolas - "

"How could I bear it?" the Wood Elf hurried on, hand raised to silence any protests the man might wish to voice. "How could I give him up? I could never leave him, but then in the end he would leave me, utterly and forever, for I cannot give him the life of the First-born though I empty the entirety of my soul into his creation. He will be a man, and he will die, and he will go to a place I can never reach. I cannot endure that!" He stood abruptly and roamed the room, a despairing groan emptying his lungs. He saw Aragorn rise and turned his back rather than meet the expression of horrified anguish transforming his face.

"You cannot believe that I could stand by and watch as you age and die only to go through it all again with my child. No more could I sail and leave him behind to his fate, to die alone, forsaken by his own Ada." A severe convulsion worked his shoulders and he cried out, hugged his hurting heart tight. "Ai! Just imagining it is torture, Aragorn!" He glanced to find the King standing frozen, mouth ajar again, eyes agleam with a sheen of unshed tears. "Please, tell me you understand! Say that you forgive me!" he pleaded, rushing back and falling on his knees, head bowed and hands uplifted in mute supplication.

The sight of him kneeling there broke the man's stupor and he immediately bent to raise him up. "Mellon, Legolas," he murmured and pulled the archer close, held him, felt the violent tremors racking the slender body. "There is nothing to forgive. I do not know what to say to you." He stood back, but kept tight hold of the prince's shoulders, warily evaluated his mental state. "Listen to me, mellon. You and I - " he faltered, not sure what would happen when he explained things. "Legolas, I already have a son and heir, Arwen's child and mine," he spoke softly and gently, willing his friend to remember, to awaken from this hallucination. "His name is Eldarion."

"Eldarion?" Legolas gaped at him, stunned, thoughts reeling.

"Aye. He is two years old. You sang him to sleep last night."

Legolas collapsed.

"Addolo enni!" (Come back to me!) the shouted command followed the loud report of a palm striking against a cheek. "Addolo si!" (Come back now!) Another sharp blow landed on the other cheek and Elrond followed that by grabbing the elven prince's lax body at the shoulders, shaking him violently, features contorted in rage. "I will not allow you to slip away, not now!" He struck him again and bellowed out a furious and incoherent shout as he was forced to throw Haldir off him and defray Arwen's attempts to stop him. "Stay out of it!" he thundered and so enraged was his expression that the two stood well back, Haldir taking hold of Arwen's hand. That was all wrong, too, but Elrond had no time to ponder it, resuming his harsh efforts to revitalise the failing archer.

They'd taken refuge in Lorien, though the Golden Wood was endangered by the wild fire and the corrupt wizard's whim. Curunir had other concerns, however, and gave no thought to the Lord of Imladris or the ill-fated son of Thranduil. Elrond rejoiced to find his daughter unharmed and with her rallied all that remained of the Galadhrim, relocating to Fangorn. Deep within the ancient trees, Elrond strove to resuscitate Legolas, the key to all this misery; he was sure of it. He assaulted the unconscious figure again. "Open your eyes and face me, coward! Betrayer!" Another blow connected fist and face. "You've killed them as surely as if you'd taken aim at their hearts with your bow!"

"Ada, please!"

Arwen was weeping; Haldir encircled her in his arms. Elrond paid them no mind, for he thought he'd detected a faint fluttering movement of the Wood Elf's eyelids. He bent close and carefully raised one; the iris contracted a tiny bit and he exhaled a huge breath of hopeful relief. Before he could continue, a great disruption ensued on the ground below the talan and he was astonished to find Anzo pulling himself up amid the limbs, determined to reach his lord. He was too heavy, however, and fell back with a ponderous thud and a desperate cry. Elrond glanced at Haldir, his orders clear, and the March Warden at once descended to deal with the woodland prince's worthy servant.

"Do him no injury," the last elven lord insisted, for his instincts told him there was good cause to preserve this man. A soft moan drew his attention back to Legolas, who was stirring. "Open your eyes, Legolas. You must awaken and face this reality you have wrought."

"Nestegi," Legolas mumbled, hand feeling over the wide swath of cotton gauze in which his chest was bandaged. It was a deep wound and throbbed terribly. Suddenly a harsh slap propelled his head against the pillows and he gasped, shocked, and tried to gather strength to defend himself. He knew this scenario and desperately struggled to free himself, but when he focused his vision on the face above him, it was not an orc but the Lord of Imladris. "What - ?"

"You know me, good," Elrond growled and grabbed him under the arms, dragged him up into sitting position, heedless of the cries of agony this elicited. He glared at the gasping and trembling prince. "Do you know where you are? Do you know when this is happening?" The Wood Elf groaned and his eyes shut as though he might descend into oblivion once more and Elrond slapped him. "No! Stay with me, Legolas." What fragment remained of Vilya's might he forced into the suffering ellon, pleased to see his contortions of agony and hear his incoherent screams.

"Ada, you will kill him!" Arwen pleaded but feared to go closer. She had never seen her father like this.

"Oh no, I will see to it he lives," Elrond snarled and struck the archer again. "Open your eyes and face me!"

"What do you want of me?" Legolas cried weakly, ineffectually trying to shield himself with leaden arms that refused to obey his wishes.

"Want?" Elrond's brows arched high, astonished to be asked this. "I want my sons back!"

"Your sons?" Legolas tried to concentrate. The world was swirling round him and he could barely glimpse the elven lord.

"They are dead and you their murderer! Your father and grandfather are dead; Celeborn your kinsman is dead along with Galadriel, along with nearly all of the population of Greenwood and Greenwood itself. All this you have wrought, you wretch!"

"Dead?" he swallowed, licked his lips, gripped the bedding beneath his body, fought the pain, stared into the twisting corridors of conflicting realities and groaned. "No, no!"

"Yes," Elrond spat. "Now you will tell me the remedy." He grabbed hold of Legolas as the Wood Elf suddenly lurched sideways, vomiting blood and bile, and the talisman round the archer's neck fell against his hand. The connection initiated a deluge of memories flowing through him in vivid detail, an amalgamation partly contradictory, vaguely complimentary, all overlapping and either cancelling or amplifying like ripples dancing across the waters of some great and fathomless ocean. He gasped and let go, sat back, heart racing, and touched for an instant upon the ring still swinging from its golden chain round Legolas' neck. The visions were acute and painful and he was startled into understanding. Legolas was dismantling fate and Celebrian's ring was the tool he employed. "We are in an unholy place and it is your doing, Legolas, yours and your Adar's. Can you wake us from this nightmare?"

"I don't know," Legolas admitted, fraught with anguished remorse, weak and overwhelmed with pain. "Without Elladan, I need the potion Adadhaer distills to do it. I don't know what's become of him."

"He is lost, for he would be here with you otherwise. Potion or not, you will do it, ion-en-'waith," Elrond intoned the title bitterly. "I will have the fate Vairë has woven for me and mine, not this perversion patched together by Thranduil's deranged and grieving heart."

"Do not disparage him!" Legolas cried. "He at least tried, he tried - " His words died away, uncertain now what his father had hoped to achieve.

"He has only aided our direst enemy," Elrond growled. "Selfish, foolish ellon!" He shouted at Legolas. "Can you still fail to see? All of this, your interference, your father's tampering, sending you careening and blundering through the paths of doom like a deranged oliphant, has been orchestrated by Saruman."

"Leave him be, Ada," Arwen interrupted their argument and took Legolas' part, drawing near. Cautiously she, too, touched her mother's ring and just as quickly pulled back her hand as though bitten. "Valar! He could not know, no more could Thranduil. Even you did not, or you would have had Nana's ring destroyed long ago. Now, I can make this potion for him, but before he drinks it we must take thought to where he will go and what he will do when he gets there. And before that you must heal him."

"Your words are wise," Elrond embraced his daughter and held her to his heart, all that remained of his family in Arda. He turned again to Legolas and passed a calmer gaze over him, seeing the depth of his sorrow and his rage. "Aye, you have been used, too, just like that ring. Be at peace and forgive my harsh criticism," he implored. "We must return them to life, all those we love so dear, and you will aid us."

"Of course, I will do everything I can, yet I fear we may not succeed, at least not with everyone," Legolas mourned, thinking of his mother and feeling the distant warmth of a faint and fragile spark of life that waited, needed to be brought into being. "Every time I attempt this someone I love dies, no matter whom I am able to salvage. I confess, I do not know how to choose the best path, the right path. Adar has sent me into those threads of fate so often I no longer know my own history; how can I determine the steps that will restore another's?"

"We will help you," Arwen promised, "for we share the ancestry of Melian, and though she does not serve Vairë, her wisdom is great and her magic vitally connected to Arda. Through her grace, we may yet set things aright."

"Would that I could have been there to see it brought down."

"You were here ensuring that its former master was brought down; that is far more important. Our effort could not have succeeded without that."

"Aye." His disconsolate tone revealed how unsatisfying that was. Legolas had neither confronted the enemy nor the enemy's lair. His contribution had been minute and Sauron never realised he was present.

They stood together in the garden, father and son reunited after all the hardship of war, Legolas leaning casually against the high stone wall, arms crossed before him, Thranduil seated on a bench beside him. Legolas sighed quietly, part in relief to know it was over and his father had survived, half in misery, for the affliction inspired by the cry of the gulls had not relented an iota. He smiled as Thranduil rose and set a comforting hand on his shoulder, covered it with his own and squeezed.

"You will not sail?"

He shook his head. "I gave my solemn word."

"And why did you? I do not understand, ionen. This man can manage his affairs and the affairs of his people without you." Thranduil tried and failed to restrain his irritation and dislike for Aragorn.

"I am not so sure," Legolas disagreed. "There is much to be repaired and all the harm of Sauron cannot be erased over night. It would be wrong for his friends to desert him when there is still such need."

The king scowled; this was a poorly rendered excuse and explained nothing. Others could as easily do this work. For the life of him he could not comprehend the strange and sudden bond that had sprung up between his son and the Dúnedan over the year of the Quest. The thought gave him an unpleasant jolt that revealed itself physically. He had an uneasy feeling that he understood, persisting in denial because that was easier to confront than the truth. Yet reason mocked him; the answer was obvious. It would take much more than a bond of friendship to hold his son here when he suffered so. "Legolas, you and this man - "

"Please do not be angry."

"I am not angry; I am furious!" Thranduil exploded, striding away across the grounds, intent upon finding the King of Gondor and expressing his outrage. Legolas caught him and yanked him to a halt.

"You mustn't, Ada!" he pleaded.

"Let go!" he pulled free and found his anger was truly concentrated right here in front of him. "How could you? Why? What of Elladan?"

"You mean Elrohir."

"Elrohir?" Thranduil was confused and suddenly snatched up his son's arm, pushed back the tunic sleeve, and exhaled a fearful breath. The memento from Curoniel was not there. He raised panicked eyes to Legolas. "Tell me you removed your Nana's bracelet so to preserve it from harm during battle."

"What bracelet? I have nothing from my mother; you know this." Legolas turned away, pale and distraught. He wandered back to the bench and sat, the king joining him, and together they looked upon the world in weary misery. "It's the wrong dream, isn't it?"

"Yes, very wrong," Thranduil groaned. He glanced at his son's wan face, saw there was more and dreaded to hear it. He swallowed and braced himself. "Tell me."

"I am with child. It is Aragorn's heir."

  
The song was fair, the lyrics replete with light and beauty and joy, being as it was a hymn of praise to Yavanna and her greatest creation, Tawar, that majestic and eternal spirit of the Great Wood responsible for harbouring and nurturing the elusive sylvan elves of Greenwood, Lorien, and the forested slopes of the Blue Mountains bordering the Sundering Sea long ago when those mountains marked the eastern border of Beleriand. The voice performing this exultant anthem was among the most lauded of all the woodland folk and so frequently was the request made for him to give melodious vent to ballads, arias, and carols of all varieties that he put the minstrels of the city of Minas Tirith to shame.

So it was at the beginning of Aragorn's reign, King Elessar of the Reunited Kingdoms of Arnor and Gondor. There was much rejoicing in song and word for the defeat of the Dark Lord, and the elven prince was inclined to serenade the fates in thanksgiving perhaps more than the mortals, but there were additional reasons for his ceaseless singing. Lately the fine vocalisations had grown rough and hoarse and strident, packed with a sort of desperation that bordered on panic and terror, or horror. Legolas sang and sang and sang until his strained larynx could barely croak and groan the words and the notes rang ragged and wretched through the air. Though the grating sounds were horrible to hear for all within earshot, silence was even worse for those who loved the Wood Elf, signalling as it did such a deep state of exhaustion that he had lost consciousness.

He was singing now, the words the same he had sung throughout the night, iterated endlessly, a plea for mercy and relief and an end to it all, for it was driving him mad. Sea-longing had him in its remorseless grasp and harried his soul as violently as a terrier shakes a rat before snapping its spine. Out in the gardens he had fled and lay now high in the arms of an old elm with gentle branches, rocking in misery, hands clapped over his ears in an ineffectual effort to block out the cry of the gulls and the surging respiration of the tides rushing eternally against the sandy shores, so far from the White City that none of the mortals could detect either sound. Legolas could not hear anything else and his friends were helpless in the face of his agony. Singing allowed him to partially block the insistent, beckoning call of the surf and was of some small comfort to him.

Soon, his voice would fail utterly and then what? He would hear that sonorous song of the sea fully without the slight damping his own voice provided. Maybe then he would truly lose any semblance of sanity. Everyone in range of his tormented song would prevent this if they could. Those nearest his heart sought to coax him to seek the only remedy available, but Legolas would not renege on his vow to Aragorn, though the man revoked it of his own accord as soon as the symptoms grew so great the archer could no longer hide them.

Gimli sat beneath the tree, silent and grim, waiting for the moment when the frail voice at last diminished to harsh and whispered syllables. It came and was followed by long and heart-tearing groans interspersed with hoarse sobs and tears. The dwarf stood and gazed up into the limbs, spied the pale figure writhing against the onslaught, and feared Legolas would fall from the heights. He turned his sight upon the sons of Elrond, sprawled in disconsolate and impotent malaise about the trunk, each one so woebegone and guilty he could neither move nor speak. Gimli frowned and stamped the ground with his heavy boot.

"Get him down before he falls and breaks his neck!" he thundered. His order made them jump up in surprise and in unison they looked first to him and then up into the tree.

"Legolas," called Elladan. "Come down now; come down." No answer was heard, only another pained moan.

"I will come up, then, and bring you out of it," warned Elrohir and made to follow through, but at last this raised a reply.

"Nay, let me be!" Legolas cried, a cracked and broken hiss.

"Nonsense and never so!" shouted the dwarf. "You ask the impossible, my friend." Upon Elladan he turned his ire. "What are you waiting for? Get up that tree and bring him down!"

Elladan obeyed, but when he reached the Wood Elf he did not attempt to force him out of the limited comfort the old elm granted. Instead he gathered Legolas into his arms and held him, singing softly against a flushed ear, crooning words of tender love, of hope and healing, of a future filled with beauty and joy and every good thing. Below, Gimli and Elrohir shared a smile and silently left them alone.

Aragorn and Elrond stood aside as they entered the room abutting the small garden, waiting there with Thranduil for news.

"How is he?" Aragorn asked, face expressive of ready knowledge of the answer. He frowned as Elrohir shook his head and Gimli shrugged.

Thranduil grimaced and motioned a disconsolate hand. "Elladan has him in hand," he advised.

"I have brought another elixir to try," Elrond said, but he did not proffer the small vial in his hand. It was a panacea; the one source of real relief Legolas might utilise he stubbornly refused to even discuss. Celebrian's healing ring remained on its chain around his neck. Elrond scanned the elven king, noting Thranduil's effort to mask his distress, wondering if he had argued in favour of using it. Their eyes met and the monarch smiled sadly.

"Thank you," he bowed and accepted the potion. "I appreciate your desire to ease his misery, but he will not use it. It cannot be risked, not now. We are resolved to let it stand."

"To let what stand?" demanded Elrohir.

"This," Thranduil extended his arm, encompassing everything around them, eyes resting on Aragorn a moment before returning to Elrond. "He will accept this fate for himself and let all others lie dormant. I am in agreement. We will let her be, for it was her own choice to leave us, and we will let this continue. Other possibilities will dim and diminish as time passes; the world will have its peace, and Legolas will suffer for a time." Everyone was staring at him as though he'd truly lost his mind, their opinions quite clear, and he laughed, tucking the vial into his tunic carefully. "No matter, it is for the best that you do not understand me. Legolas would be glad of that." He dipped his head to Elrond and left them.

"What was that about?" asked Aragorn uneasily.

"He's insane," Elrohir dismissed the odd behaviour irritably.

"I thought he would insist Legolas renounce his oath of fealty and sail," Gimli commented.

"Aye, he should sail," Elrond agreed, "but we all know he will not." His eyes flickered to Aragorn and he smiled kindly on the man. "It is not your fault and you must honour his decision in the same spirit of courage with which he made it."

"Honour it?" Aragorn shook his head. "This is unconscionable! He suffers needlessly!"

"Not so," Elrond contradicted him, but was instantly denounced.

"You know it is true," scoffed Aragorn. "I know about that ring he wears. It holds a healing power and if he were to use it now, he could withstand this torment. Can you yet deny this?" The newly crowned King could not comprehend why his foster-father, so esteemed a healer, would refuse to advocate this protocol.

"It is a ring of healing," Elrond agreed, "but it is more than that. He cannot employ it to relieve the symptoms of sea-longing."

"You do not know that for certain," the man insisted. "I say let him try."

"Nay, even Elladan does not want him to wear it," added Elrohir.

"Truly, 'twon't do," Gimli shook his beard. "He's told me some about that ring, for I asked. He both loves and dreads it and informed me that he must keep it safe and confined. I asked what he meant and was told the ring has a living entity trapped within the crystal planes. Whatever it may be, Legolas feels strongly it is his doom to contain and control it, lest it get free and do harm."

This speech silenced everyone and Aragorn stared at the dwarf, aghast. "He has been hiding the truth from me!" he finally barked and took a turn about the room, angry.

"Do not take it hard," admonished Gimli. "He felt you had sufficient burdens to bear. Besides, he's had the thing so long he does not give it constant attention, accustomed to its presence, accepting it in the same manner that he has two arms, two legs."

"Maybe so, but I think there is more to it than that," Elrohir amended this idea, though he was a minute or two as he sought how to describe what he sensed about the relationship between Legolas and his Nana's ring. "It is not disregard wrought of constant exposure; he does esteem the light it holds and I know he communes with it."

"Communes with it?" Elrond did not like the sound of that. A vague but unnerving sense of doom edged into his heart.

"That's giving it too much mind," Gimli disagreed. "He feels responsible for it, cares for it, has in a sense nurtured it throughout his life, but doesn't converse with it any more than he does with his beloved trees."

"Well, he is always conversing with those trees!" snorted Aragorn.

"Nurturing it, that I do not like hearing," Elrond shook his head.

"Why so, what do you fear?" Elrohir was catching his uneasiness and wrapped his arms tight about him. "Is there anything of darkness in that ring, Ada?" This was not an easy thing to ask after the battles just fought and the suffering so recently ended by Frodo's triumph, but Celebrian's ring was old, as ancient as the Three and made by the same craftsman, one of Celebrimbor's earliest attempts to perfect his skill.

"It cannot be discounted," Elrond murmured, watching a startling array of scenes transpire across his mental horizon, some memories of what had been, many more disturbing alterations of those very images. "None know now how the power of the Music was sealed within the Three. No more can I guess how living light was stolen from the stars and therein trapped. I wonder - "

" - if it has awareness of its confinement?" Gimli finished for him, neither disturbed nor surprised, and his insouciance addled the others sufficiently to render them all speechless. He nodded and met each set of worried eyes in turn. "He said he and it have grown up together, that both have come to be troubled and unhappy about its imprisonment."

"Imprisonment! This entity wishes to be free?" Aragorn dared to ask, a slight shiver rocking his bones. These were strange tidings and he realised at once Legolas was right not to reveal such a bizarre relationship. He felt himself to be a most level-headed and judicious individual, but the idea of a living spirit being eternally bound up in the small crystal made his flesh creep.

"Legolas himself wishes it to be free, but neither one know how to effect this end. He hopes to bring the ring before the Powers some day and there beg aid, though he's not overly optimistic the mighty Valar of Aman will care about the hopes of one Wood Elf and his much cherished 'gil-en-cuil' (spark of life)."

Elrond physically twitched, the words ricochetting through his being in strong, echoing, majestic tones like the tolling of a bell. "Grown up together," he repeated in wonder. The truth was plain to him now; he remembered and suddenly grabbed Elrohir close, squeezed him, laughing. "Ai, ionen!" he exclaimed as he released the mystified twin, and reached out to touch Aragorn, reassuring himself he was really there. He hadn't seen anything at all of his nephew in some of those scenes. "We all owe quite a debt to Legolas after all, aye, and even to his father. Without Legolas to hold it firm and fast, to dare to harbour and protect it, to love it in a sense, who can guess what harm that unformed light might wreak on the world?"

Though they pressed him, he refused to elaborate and in time they desisted and this conversation was forgotten.

Manwë gazed upon his fellow Valar, mildly startled, for rarely did Estë, Yavanna, and Vairë come before him in supplication. Vairë considered it beneath her, spending her time in close concert with Eru instead; Yavanna took too much pleasure in being treated as a Goddess by her sylvan elves to bother with other folk, while Estë was too diffident to impose upon her Lord. Besides, she was constantly busy with the First-born and their many little troubles, none of which she deemed important enough to bring before him. Tulkas, Oromë, Námo, and Ulmo commanded most of his time, always complaining and arguing over whose concerns merited the most immediate action. The High King of the West listened to the Ladies' combined account gravely.

"Then, if I comprehend your explanation, this woodland prince is one of your children, Vairë?" he asked when the summation concluded.

"Distantly," the Weaver admitted with reluctance. "An offshoot of my son Galion and that sylvan maiden he found at the Waters of Awakening. He is more Wood Elf than Maia and thus I have attempted to leave him to Yavanna as that is her wish. Besides, being of living flesh his talent is limited. There is really nothing more of my art that he could actually master."

"He is indeed a Wood Elf, but unique among all his kind, whether of the woods or not," Yavanna proudly declared. "He surpasses all your favourites, Hiren; even among the Calaquendi he shines resplendent. Legolas is integral to the successful defeat of our brother's disciple and that unfortunate incident concerning his Ring."

"Legolas has a good heart," Estë affirmed, "but I agree with Vairë. He is beyond his depths. We must intervene, but how to resolve the quandary without injuring his soul or the spirit of the unborn child eludes us."

"I see," Manwë scowled. He did not like this blending of the two kinds; trouble always arose on account of it. "It would seem to me the time for intervention is long past. If Vairë has been unable to mitigate his actions, how shall another?"

"Oh!" Vair&euml was incensed. "I have repaired damage done by him and his scheming Adar so many times I have lost count of them! This is not my fault, but Yavanna's!"

"Nay, I have no power to join him in his dreams," the Goddess of All Growing Things denied. "That is your domain, Sister."

"You could have easily influenced your precious sylvan maiden who ensnared my Galion!" the Weaver shrilled.

"Why didn't you just weave her an new fate, then?"

"I did, but Galion opposed me, twisted and unravelled every new thread. She worked her wiles on my son and - "

"Ladies, please!" interrupted Estë, dismayed to have the argument begin all over again when so much was at stake. "Hiren, you must aid us in how to manage this. The child must be born, yet we fear there is something suspect in the nature of its spirit," Estë reiterated. "We fear the light in the Wood Elf's ring was contaminated before Sauron was vanquished, and that this small spark of unclean energy is now seducing Feanor. It means to recruit him to escape its crystal prison and become a new thing never known before: the merger of elf-kind with raw light, a ray of the Music that was captured by Celebrimbor in the middle Second Age of Arda."

"I think it is simple enough to remedy if the light is never freed. The Wood Elf's child need not be possessed of this elemental energy. Just keep him away from Feanaro, which should be easy since the kin-slayer is still under the doom of Námo." Manwë repressed a sigh. Often, the answers to the questions brought before him were so simple, but the parties involved refused to agree and used him to mediate. It was tiresome at times.

"Forgive me for repeating what you have already considered," Vairë retorted archly, "but the issue is the Wood Elf's intentions. We fear he may be manipulated into freeing the light from the ring by some other means than seeking Feanaro's help. He would never trust the Noldorin prince, for he is not a fool. He is resisting the strong urge to wear the ring and thus become fully attuned to its presence, but as the days continue and the child is not born, his will may weaken."

Before Manwë could rebuke her for her insolent tone, a small disturbance occurred without the mighty Vala's Chamber of Audience. It was quickly quieted, but he gazed at the door a second or two as though waiting for it to open. The fact of the door's presence itself indicated the arrival of elven emissaries, and he could not help but wonder if the petitioners were involved in the present discussion. Nothing happened. He resumed attending to his comrades, eyeing Vairë with displeasure in which just a small amount of trepidation was mingled. It was an uneasy feeling to know that she, who held converse with Eru, did not know how to correct the present dilemma. He could only conclude the Wood Elf's fate was still undecided, and that was unprecedented.

"My dear Ladies, I fear this is an issue in which there is no need for such grave concern," he counselled them as gently as he could. "There is little chance this hybrid elf could determine a means to free the entity from the ring he bears. Keep him from Mandos and all will be well."

"I am not so sure," Estë shook her head. "He has done many things no other among the First-born has achieved. I fear we have underestimated the archer."

"He would use whatever means available, even to suicide so to enter Mandos and beg advise from a kin-slayer," announced Vairë sadly. "Only he fears to lose the child should he do so, for he has come to love the spirit of the ring and equates it with his own child's essence."

"Is it?" Manwë was intrigued in spite of himself. Here was something truly new in his experience and he was always excited to discover hidden themes unfolding within the Music. Before either Vala could reply, the disturbance without was renewed, the turmoil greater, the number of voices raised now three instead of one, and suddenly Eonwë appeared, disgruntled and rather dismal in countenance. "Yes?"

"Forgive the intrusion, but it seems the people outside are concerned in your present disputation," he announced, a distinct cast of shame-faced mortification inundating his spirit.

"Really?" Manwë's eyes sparkled to hear his speculation validated. "Tell me."

"The woodland ellon's father, his mate, as well as his best friend, The Dwarf, are beseeching admittance to your presence."

"He's put on the ring," groaned Vairë.

"He has done no such thing! It is his stupid, moronic, idiotic, senseless Peredhel mate who has done it!" This abusive and explosive remark issued from the other side of the shut door accompanied by the sound of a fist landing with excessive force upon it. "Open this door at once!"

"I only meant to give him a peaceful rest. He is so exhausted."

"Stand back, I'll get it open for ye in a trice."

"I don't think that's wise, Gimli."

The four Valar and one Valarindi stood mesmerised as a tremendous assault upon the door began, each one for a moment caught in the fantastic drama of one of the children of Aulë battering the entrance to the throne room of the High King of the West with a two-headed mattock. The portal gave a shivering moan but held. There was a pause and the disgruntled father resumed his castigation from without.

"Open this door, I say! Have you no shame, hiding from the just remonstrance of one of Eru's children? Who are you to play with my child thus? I will not have it!" Thranduil began pounding on the barrier with renewed fury.

"Perhaps," suggested Eonwë.

"Yes, let them enter."

"Oh dear," Estë whispered.

The Powers instantly assumed a physical form the First-born could perceive. Manwë was smiling. This might turn out to be a problem that actually required his aid after all, and it was certainly entertaining. He was enjoying the scene with relish and rose to greet the Sindarin King as he stormed into the room, bellowing as he walked.

"This tragedy is on your head! You've ignored my pleas for time out of mind! Have I not come here Every Single Day that dawns since first I arrived in Aman? Have you ever even noticed my supplications?" Thranduil raged at the High King of the West, not bothering to acknowledge the Vala's polite bow, finger pointing, green eyes afire in rage. He turned from Manwë to Eonwë. "You! Every Single Day you pacify me with lies and demeaning words! I have begged and still you ignored me! Now see what your disdain has wrought! If my child ends up in Mandos, I will join him and raise up such an army as will bring down these noble halls!"

"Aranen," Elladan attempted to calm him and received the full force of the Sindarin King's anger. He found himself on the ground before the throne of Manwë, his nose streaming blood, his thoughts disarranged by the sudden explosion of sparks and blinding pain.

"This imbecile is responsible," Thranduil indicated his law-son with an accusing forefinger. "He put the ring on him. All this time Legolas has resisted and now this brainless excuse for an elf has wrecked everything!"

"I fear Elladan might have a slight weakness in character along the Noldorin bloodline," opined Gimli, leaning on his ax, not a bit awed to be in the presence of such hallowed Powers. "He has a link to the kin-slayers through his father's people and the so-called gift of Melian makes him open to subconscious suggestion. One of the old reprobates is trying to break jail, and Legolas' child is the vessel to be used."

"Indeed?" Manwë bent his sight upon his son, noting Eonwë's mortification was deepening. "Is what the Sindarin King says true? Has he come seeking my counsel before and been denied?"

"What else might he expect?" Yavanna spoke up for her favourite elves. "When have the Powers considered the woodland folk worthy of notice?"

"I must confess this is the case," Eonwë answered his father contritely, bowing. "I beg pardon; the issue did not seem pressing to me."

"Not pressing?" Thranduil shouted, at a loss to contain his outrage. "This is my child's fate! What can be more pressing? Bound up within his life is the salvation of all your precious designs upon Arda. This is not important enough to consider?"

"To be fair, you brought that upon him," Elladan stated, on his feet again thanks to the kindly assistance of Estë whose healing touch instantly rejuvenated the damaged cartilage of his nose.

"Have I denied it?" Thranduil cried. "Have I not been here pleading on my knees to have the punishment fall on the true culprit? What else have I come here to do? I would take it from him, but none will hear me." He fell on his knees now. "Manwë Sulímo, hear me! Legolas is innocent and has tried to do what is right and best for everyone involved. He did not know about that ring. It was Galion who told me of it and I conspired with him to bring the Peredhel to Legolas. Punish me and free my child from this unending sorrow!"

Manwë was moved by the father's distraught and genuine appeal and went to him, raising the Sindarin noble up. "Be at peace; I did not know you came to me. I will indeed heed your supplication on your son's behalf. It is not the intent of Eru to punish anyone unjustly. Now then, he is wearing the ring?"

"That is my fault," Elladan admitted quietly. "I only wanted him to sleep for a time, but he will not awaken now. He is somewhere dream-walking and I know not what may happen to him."

"Why don't you just remove the ring?" asked Yavanna, feeling she already knew the answer to this, and Gimli confirmed it.

"Aulë's Arse! Are ye daft? Don't ye think we tried, fool of a lass?"

"There is some power in that ring we never reckoned before," Thranduil stated, "for it was not capable of exerting action of its own accord. This has changed; it has matured. It resists all efforts to take it from his hand."

"Then, if we cannot awaken Legolas out of these dreams, we must reach him within those shifting planes," Manwë advised and turned to Estë. "We will need your husband," and to his son he then spoke: "Do fetch him at once."

The sea was restless, green as slate and heavily ominous, the currents at cross, sending waves curling in at odd angles, racing for the strand and colliding, the resultant thunder deafening, the spouts produced high and white under the dull light of the shrouded sun. Relentless, the water surged against the land and the sky, against itself, tumultuous and fraught with an impatient and irritable energy, a seething and murderous tempest brooding somewhere just out there beyond the horizon. It waited there, just beyond sight, pacing like a caged beast, stalled, ready neither to advance nor possessing any intention of withdrawing. Waiting and watching the dark outline of the land, the Blessed Land.

The wind forced itself inland in hot fuming gusts, the sound as it whipped through hair and grass and around ears filled with warning, the scent of it strangely metallic, a touch of smoke in it which surely was impossible, but no other smell was like the burning of a living forest. At times, as now, Legolas thought the ocean carried to Aman the remnant, vestigial emanations of strife from the Severed Lands so far away, and he worried about the trees there and the people left behind to govern them. Were they well? Was there peace? Underneath it all hummed his greater dread: that Tawar was no more, all the trees gone. What had they fought all those battles for? They'd abandoned Greenwood after all.

"Here you are!"

The voice was overly cheery, but the concern it harboured was genuine, generated by a deep and abiding love. Legolas turned sharply, for few were the elves who could approach him in stealth and succeed, but he was smiling, the warmth in his eyes making up for the pale and meagre heat of the sun. He appraised the tall ellon with proud approval: strong and broad, a swordsman's physique, long ebony hair blowing wild in the tempest, grey eyes bright with worry and relief.

"Yes. Didn't mean to trouble you. Have I been long?"

"Very! I sometimes wonder if the sea-longing has ever fully left your bones." He came and stood beside Legolas, settled an arm over the Wood Elf's shoulders, sighed and turned his eyes out to the turbulent mass of salty fluid.

"Aye, I don't think it ever will, completely. There are some diseases among the humans that never really heal, but return to plague their hosts periodically. Perhaps it is like that for me, the sea." Legolas passed his arm around the narrow waist, drew close hip against hip, felt the anxiety drain away from him. Almost, he could believe the very ocean calmed, too. They stood thus in companionable silence for quite some time, for he was content and had no wish to break the gentle mood. This was good and pure.

"Something got into you, that's certain," black tresses objected to the solemn shake of his head and for several seconds the two were laughing as they sought to disentangle the blonde and ebony strands and clear them from their eyes. They resumed their congenial conjunction as he met the clear blue irises with a searching, pensive gaze. "What do you see when you look out there?"

"Oh!" Legolas shrugged, looked away, laughed a hollow bark of a laugh and shook his head. "I don't know; maybe it is what I cannot see that draws me here."

"There's no more need to pine so," the gentle rebuke was accompanied by a compassionate squeeze. "All whom you love are here, safe at last. You needn't go there anymore."

"I know," Legolas' voice was apologetic. He couldn't seem to help himself. He couldn't manage to give them up.

"They are all gone, those who would even know you, much less care about you."

"Ai!" This made him flinch and he ducked from under the weight and the strength of that arm, glared in furious astonishment. "That was unnecessarily cold!" he cried. "I know they're gone! Can't I even grieve for them without somebody complaining about it? Do I not come away here so nobody has to see?"

"Please don't be angry. I know you mourn them, but do not fool yourself that because you absent yourself that we don't feel it. Your grief is like that storm out there, stewing and brewing, working itself up into a great and terrible fury before it breaks. And when it breaks -"

"I see; I see," Legolas crossed his arms over his heart and nodded, a horrible grin marring his features. "Let me pretend so that everyone else is not disturbed."

"I don't want you to pretend anything anymore. I want you to stop. You've got to stop."

"What if I cannot? What if I don't know how?"

"You can; you do. Just give it up, please. We are all worried about you."

"I can't!" Legolas screeched, a desperate sound filled with misery and pleading. He backed away but was followed. His heels touched the water and a rushing gush of foam bathed his ankles. The retreating water sucked at the sand beneath his feet and he stumbled, flung out his arms. "Help me!" A strong hand caught his and gripped hard, pulled, held him fast. He clung on as one drowning.

"Get rid of it! Just throw it away! You must do it now!"

"No! Why? It's not just a ring; it has spirit and light of its own. You would have me destroy that which preserved me!"

"Can't you see? You have given it more than it has given you, and now you can give no more. No More! You're fading!"

"I can't do it. You do it!"

"I cannot; no one else can but you. Break with it and be done! Come back to us!"

"I - It will not let me fade. It needs me."

"No, it will use you up and then find another on which to feed. Here then, give it to me." He held out his free hand, palm upward.

"No! You mustn't!" Legolas clutched at the fair crystal ring hung on its golden chain about his neck.

"You see, you do fear it or you would not hesitate to hand it to me."

"Aye. As long as I have it, it can do no one else any harm."

"That is just another lie it tells you."

"No. You do not understand."

"Yes. You are the one misguided and deceived! It can do irreparable harm, for if you are lost, what becomes of me?"

The storm broke, a fulminating explosion of light and sound heralding the downpour as the seas rose in endless ranks and commenced invasion of the defenceless lands, the Blessed Lands. They turned to run up the shingle but were quickly undermined and inundated and ripped from the shore, yanked down beneath the churning surf, dragged away in the current. Shouting in fear and anger they bobbed to the surface only to be rolled and submerged anew.

They battled it, hands still glued together, kicking against the riptide, clawing at the flux, struggling for air and light and freedom. The force was more than they could master and they were torn asunder. Legolas felt a shout buffet him through the pounding of the waves and terror seized him. Lungs burning for breath, in vain he sought the surface to learn where he was, to find him, save him. In cruel mockery the ocean shoved him through the roiling foam and pushed him up, up to the high crest of a mighty wave, and there he saw, so far away, the dark head bobbing, a hand shot up and a last cry rang out: "Ada!" and then he was sucked under.

"Olsatanô!" (Dreamsmith)

Legolas was back in the deeps the next instant and could not discern up from down or in which direction lay the land. He could not touch the bottom. They were lost, both lost, all lost, and his heart felt close to bursting with sorrow and rage. A faint glimmer caught his eye, the ring on its chain awash in the coiling currents around him, pulled from its protected place beneath his clothes, next to his heart. In that instant he hated it, its lovely light and its twinkling charms. It stood between him and the most deeply cherished desires of his hidden heart. He ripped it from his neck and cast it away.

Before he could blink it was gone, plummeting down to bottom, lost, but he had not even the minutest regret, spared it not so much as a glimpse as it vanished. All his thought was bent upon his son, and even as he forced himself through the murky seas, a hand grabbed at his tunic. They came up together upon a calm and peaceful mass of water dappled and dimpled with soft swells that readily carried them back to the land, the Blessed Land.

  
"And what is it that you most hope for, deep in the hidden recesses of your heart of hearts?"

What sort of question is this to ask? What right has anyone to dare broach so private a query, much less some stranger who knows nothing about me? What dwells within cannot survive out of its element. Like rare minerals born in the intensity of pressures and temperatures consistent with the earth's guts, with its liver, wherein impurities and poisons reside alongside that which is essential and purified by the extensive refining of time and trial, these things cannot flourish once exposed to the dangerous realm of light, of lightness, of shallow looseness and air, where anything and everything can get at them and destroy them. I can't protect them there, but only watch as they are sullied and fouled and mocked, detaching myself from them as they lose their allure, their pristine perfections, their inherent definitions of self, of myself, becoming other, watch and step back, back and back and back, letting them go slowly and painfully in an agony of terrible sorrow and rage.

### The End

**FINAL NOTE:** _All done. There is nothing much to say and while I wish this was acceptable, I know it is not what I tacitly promised, for it is not a conventional wrap up of our characters' troubled pathways, while the requests for readers' preferences which I solicited have been ignored. I apologise to you all for that, for those who needed and wanted to see Legolas happy with one or the other or both of the Twins. It was not by design, yet this is the inevitable conclusion of the design with which I began. Know that I did try, but after more than 64,000 words, in addition to these here, were written and discarded, I simply had no means to get back to that place, or to find that place of comfortable conclusion and happily ever after._

_Legolas in this story has evolved far beyond any of these traditional perceptions and really can't cope very well with arriving at a conscious level of perception that absolutely no one in all the world can see what he sees or know what he knows. He cannot reach anyone; no one can reach him. Some will try, but he will always find that they are blind and deaf to some of the most important things about him, about what he knows and what he is, who he is. Honestly, he should not be raising a child at all in such a state, because he imagines this child will be the one person who can and will see him and hear him and find him important. Of course the child will, that's not the issue. The saddest thing about this story is that Legolas believes that this capacity in the child will lead to a deep and abiding communion between them, that the child will be born as his own inner self intact, enhanced, appreciated and understood, a person who cannot help but acknowledge his value beyond the essential role of having given life. It is a lie._

_So the best I could do was deliver him and all those he loves from the horrendous cycle of repeating and repeating and repeating their lives in permutation after permutation after permutation of what might have come to pass. If I could manage the same for myself, I would be at peace. My deepest thanks to those who have followed the story and waited so patiently for resolution, especially those who took the time to leave me a note to let me know their thoughts about it. I truly cherish each kind word and every reader. Cheers all :)_


End file.
